


The Iron Curtain Affair

by Taylor Dancinghands (tdancinghands)



Series: Sentinels from UNCLE [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6630412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tdancinghands/pseuds/Taylor%20Dancinghands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rising young UNCLE agent and unbonded Guide Napoleon Solo affects a laissez-faire attitude about it, but he is beginning to wonder if he will find ever his Sentinel. Unbonded Sentinel and ex-KGB golden boy Illya Kuryakin has always been encouraged to think of a Guide as unnecessary for a Sentinel who possesses the control, as he does, to keep the zone-outs at bay. Sparks fly when the two are brought together for a diplomatically sensitive mission on the mountainous border between West Germany and Czechoslovakia, where Eastern and Western powers, smugglers, and very land itself present lethal hazards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: "A very dangerous Game…"

**Author's Note:**

> Look! Yet another well worn fannish A/U which no one has applied to Man from UNCLE yet! (In fact, Macx on Ao3 has recently completed a fine movie-verse/Sentinel story [Stuck in Reverse] but so far as I know, no one has done it with our beloved originals). As with all 'Sentinels are a known institution' type 'verse, the setting here is around 75% fannon and 20% canon and 5% made up entirely by me.
> 
> Pronunciation notes for the Czech words:  
> Jáchymov =Yachimov (ch as in the Scottish 'loch')  
> Jelinek =Yelinek  
> Šumava =Shumava

_-a Man from UNCLE/Sentinel AU crossover slash fanfic  
_

**Prologue: "A very dangerous Game…"**

Napoleon Solo had visited Germany often enough to appreciate the regional differences. Bavaria, and its capital, Munich, were a little more relaxed and comfortable than the northern regions, more folksy, and the food was better. An evening free in Munich was always a pleasure, and for Napoleon, fresh off a stressful, weeks long operation in Morocco, it was a pleasure well deserved.

It was also the only pleasure he was going to get any time soon. Even as they'd been mopping up the Marrakesh affair, Napoleon had been ordered to Munich, post haste, to meet with a team of Eastern and Western UNCLE agents. The six of them, two Czechs, a Brit, a West German, a Russian and Napoleon had been briefed on the mission this morning and were due to catch the early morning train to German-Czechoslovak border tomorrow. There it was suspected that uranium was being smuggled out from behind the Iron Curtain.

It seemed a Sentinel heavy team, with the Czech couple being a bonded Sentinel and Guide pair, the Russian an unbonded Sentinel, the west German a bonded Sentinel whose guide worked with UNCLE but was not a field agent, and Napoleon, an unbonded Guide. Only the Brit was a mundane, but he was an experienced agent with great deal of local knowledge. Napoleon had given the Russian, Kuryakin, a long look—he always did with unbonded Sentinels—but the man gave off no hints of interest in Napoleon. In fact, he gave off nothing at all, having evidently mastered the control of his emotional state so tightly that not even Napoleon's probing empathy could find a clue of how he felt. He probably never had zone-outs, and certainly didn't seem to be looking for a Guide.

The Czechs were heading up the mission, as the uranium had originated there, in the notorious Jáchymov uranium mines. Discrepancies in certain shipping manifests had been discovered there, and further investigation had revealed that shipments of radioactive material were being auctioned off in the underground market in Trieste. More recently, small radioactive traces had been detected in a mountain village on the east side of the Czech/German border, leading local authorities to speculate that it was travelling over one of many venerable smugglers' trails crossing the Šumava and Bavarian mountains.

The border was defended, of course, by a double line of razor-wire lined fencing, occasionally enhanced with landmines, but it was impossible to monitor every inch of the hundreds of miles of border snaking across and over the vast mountainous wilderness. This region included not only trackless acres of forest, but also a number of extensive and deadly peat bogs.

This rugged, wilderness setting was the reason for the high proportion of Sentinels. Napoleon, the Brit, Agent Eric Blanding, Napoleon and the German—Agent Greta Fischer, would be covering the western side, where they expected the smugglers to exit, while the Czechs and the Russian would try and catch them going in, on the East side of things. The area between was remote and crisscrossed with countless half secret routes, some dating back to the Roman Army, who'd visited the area around 700 AD

 

Without the opportunity to make any concrete plans, Napoleon began his evening with what might have seemed aimless wandering through one of the districts where cafes, taverns and restaurants dotted every street corner. He might peer at a menu here and there, but he entered nowhere. He sauntered on instead, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the neighborhood, seemingly looking for something, without knowing exactly what it was.

The blonde didn't really catch his eye until he'd noticed her more than a couple of times, apparently wandering as aimlessly as he. Without any particular conscious decision, Napoleon found himself following her at a distance, using a spy's skill set so ingrained he hardly knew he was using it, to remain unseen. From time to time he'd get a good glimpse of her face, pleasing enough to the eye but also somehow compelling, or possibly familiar. It was slowly beginning to occur to Napoleon that he might have encountered her in his last mission, but if that was the case, all the more reason to continue following.

She, as Napoleon had been doing earlier, seemed to be wandering idly, without any particular aim, pausing before the occasional tavern but never going in. The very similarity of her behavior ought to have tripped Napoleon's alarms, but he was, perhaps, a little tired and little bit beguiled. The Thrush agent she reminded him of, more and more as time passed, had been an unbonded Sentinel as well, and Napoleon had distracted her from her watch post by appealing to that very nature, as only an unbonded Guide can do. He'd not stayed to see the look of betrayal on her face once it was clear that he'd accomplished his goal. In fact, he hadn't seen her since.

Unless this was her he was following now which, Napoleon realized belatedly as he looked around at the other very muscular 'patrons' of the cafe he'd followed her into, was possibly not the smartest thing he'd ever done. Even as his brain caught up with how very not smart he'd been, an obviously thuggish young man stepped up behind Napoleon, between him and the door, and turned the cardboard sign there from 'offen' to 'geschlossen'. The woman, who Napoleon now clearly recognised as the Thrush operative he'd distracted in Marrakesh, beckoned for Napoleon to join her at the table where she sat.

"Sorry, didn't realize you were closing," Napoleon deadpanned. "I'll just be going…" There were now two thugs blocking the door and both wordlessly shook their heads. Another one came up along side Napoleon and took him by the arm to 'escort' him to the table where the woman, who had last introduced herself to Napoleon as Angelique, waited. His escort pulled out a chair and when Napoleon balked, shoved him down into it.

She leaned across the table towards Napoleon as though they were intimates and Napoleon tried to remember what name he'd used with her, hoping against hope that his cover was still intact.

"And here you are at last," she said with a seductive smile. "You played a very dangerous game with me when last we met, Napoleon Solo."

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~


	2. Act I: "Why did it have to be you?"

"I beg your pardon?" he replied, still playing dumb.

"You're apparently quite the rising star in UNCLE," Angelique continued. "Imagine what they'll say when it comes out that you threw over the traces for a beautiful Thrush Sentinel? I wouldn't be surprised if it sets 'Guides Rights' back a hundred years." She laughed as she said it, even as she reached out to brush Napoleon's cheek with a prettily manicured nail.

The touch sent a chill down Napoleon's spine, all the more because he felt the allure as well. He'd taken a risk, letting himself open up just enough that Angelique had truly believed he wanted to be her Guide when he'd flirted with her. It left him vulnerable now, no matter the revulsion he felt at her touch, and at the very idea that he'd lend his considerable talents to Thrush's evil goals. He jerked back from that touch, and let her see a glimpse of his disgust before shutting their faint connection down, hard.

Alas, he was restrained in his desire to move away by the thug standing at his shoulder, and a second later Angelique had grabbed hold of his chin, her nails cutting like claws. "You'll be mine," she hissed. "And you'll do my bidding. Guides have no right to refuse a Sentinel in Thrush, as it should be."

Now Napoleon began to feel a real dread, for he knew, as well as any Guide, what means might be used to force a Guide to accept a Sentinel who'd 'won' them. One of those means was now in the hands of the thug standing next to Napoleon—a metal mesh collar attached to a power source capable of delivering a painful, or even lethal electric shock if the Guide wandered too far from his Sentinel. In the old days they'd been connected by a cable to a belt worn by the Sentinel, but nowadays they were radio controlled, with an automatic proximity sensor.

There was no question in Napoleon's mind that he'd rather die than submit to such a fate. Modern scientists generally agreed that a Guide couldn't actually be forced to make a bond with an unsuitable Sentinel, but such means as a 'bonding collar' could break a Guide, psychologically, making him easily subjected to brainwashing. Careful not to telegraph his moves, Napoleon prepared to make a grab for the thug's gun. The move was far more likely to result in his being killed than in gaining his freedom, but at the moment, Napoleon was calling that an acceptable outcome.

Napoleon was on the very cusp of his desperate lunge into action when, without warning, there came a splintering crash at the door. It came with such force and suddenness that one of the two goons standing there was down and out by the time he or anyone else figured out what had happened. While Napoleon was keenly interested in knowing who had caused this disruption and why, he also saw a fleeting opportunity to make his gun grabbing move with a much higher chance of success.

Napoleon lunged, just as the thug made his own move to draw his gun and shoot at the intruder. The result was that the gun was knocked out of the thug's grasp and sent skittering across the floor, just as the intruder was putting the second door guard's head through the plate glass window at the front of the cafe. Hands free, the intruder now drew his own gun, and that was when Napoleon recognized him.

There is a certain spareness of style which Napoleon had long come to recognize in agents trained by the KGB. This was what he noticed before he caught the blonde hair or the broad, Slavic cheekbones, but taken all together, they clearly made this surprise rescuer to be Agent Illya Kuryakin, who he'd only just met this afternoon. Before Napoleon even had time to wonder what bizarre coincidence had resulted in Kuryakin's being here, at this particular moment, however, the Sentinel looked out across the room, his eyes finding Napoleons' and locking them into his gaze.

It was like being struck by lightning, or burned by cold fire. The cold fire was in Kuryakin's icy blue gaze, and the bolt that struck was the sudden and irrefutable knowledge that this man was his Sentinel and Napoleon was his Guide. It took the wind out of him, like a body blow, and left both Napoleon and Kuryakin paralyzed for a split second. In that second Napoleon heard Angelique scream in denial, saw her pick up the collar that her thug had dropped, and lunge toward Napoleon.

Wrenching himself into motion, Napoleon threw himself sideways, away from the frustrated Thrush Sentinel, and heard the crack of a bullet striking the collar's power supply. A bright, scorching flash signalled its demise as Napoleon made a grab for the previously dropped gun, still on the floor not far from where he'd landed. Angelique's thug leapt after him, and the two of them grappled for it on the floor.

Even as he struggled to keep his larger and stronger opponent from getting him in a chokehold, Napoleon became aware, somehow, that Kuryakin was covering them, and that if he managed to put a little distance between himself and his opponent, the Sentinel would take him out. Abandoning the gun, Napoleon got a knee into the thug's crotch and then rolled away. A split second later Kuryakin's gun spoke and the thug fell still, an UNCLE sleep dart square in his solar plexus.

Glancing around the shambles of the cafe, Napoleon saw that he and Kuryakin were now alone, save for the unmoving bodies of four or five Thrush goons. Angelique, it seemed, had chosen discretion as the better part of valor. Napoleon rose and dusted himself off, seeing as the coast was clear, but he was no sooner upright than Kuryakin was before him, a grabbing his lapels and jerking him forward to meet him eye to eye.

"You!" he exclaimed, breath harsh in Napoleon's face. "Of all people, why did it have to be you?"

Napoleon was not certain how he would have answered, but he was not given a chance, for the next moment Kuryakin's lips were on his and all the adrenaline of the preceding firefight poured into a searing kiss. Time all but stopped as the two agents, now Sentinel and Guide, stood surrounded by shattered and overturned tables and chairs and shards of the broken front window, and sought to devour one another with passion. It was Napoleon who came up for air first, grabbing his Sentinel by the shoulders to hold him back.

"Communicator," Napoleon said, rough voiced. "You have one?"

He did, though Napoleon had to take it out of his hands once he'd retrieved it from his jacket pocket, as all Kuryakin wanted to do was press his face against Napoleon's bare skin.

"We're going to need a mop up team at, em…" Napoleon began once he'd contacted UNCLE Munich headquarters, prodding Kuryakin to give him the address. "And Agent Kuryakin and myself are going to need a day or two of uninterrupted privacy. Maybe a spare safe house somewhere nearby?"

There was a pause at this request, then, "Are you saying that… you and Agent Kuryakin are… have just…?"

"Agent Kuryakin is no longer an unbonded Sentinel, and I am no longer an unbonded Guide, yes sir," Napoleon answered, one-handedly fending his Sentinel off as he tried to open Napoleon's shirt.

Various clicks and hisses from the communicator told Napoleon that his call was being transferred, and then another voice, one he recognized as belonging to UNCLE Munich's Chief of Operations, Agent Altergott. He began by asking for the agent to whom the communicator was assigned.

"This is Agent Solo, sir. I'm afraid Agent Kuryakin is a little… distracted at the moment," Napoleon answered. "We could really use that private time, and the sooner the better."

"Understood, Agent Solo," Altergott answered. "We're assigning you to a safehouse around half a mile from your location." He gave an address which Napoleon repeated to Kuryakin, who seemed to know, more or less, where it was.

"Consider yourself on leave till you're ready to recommence your duties," Altergott continued. "We can send Agent Blanding with the Czechs, and you'll be rejoin Agent Fischer on the west side of the border whenever you can. Luckily for you, she's a certified trainer for UNCLE Sentinel and Guide pairs, so you'll be able to carry out your mission while undergoing the training."

Napoleon concurred that it was lucky, even as he wondered what this training might consist of, then Altergott congratulated them and signed off. Napoleon handed the communicator back to his Sentinel and suggested they head directly to the safehouse. Kuryakin seemed not to have understood.

"You must stop speaking," he said, sounding dazed and still nuzzling Napoleon's throat where his shirt collar was partially undone. "Your voice… I cannot think when you speak like that…"

"Sentinel!" Napoleon stated firmly, calling on the distant memory of the Guide training he'd gotten in his youth. "Your Guide needs you to take him to the nearest safehouse. You know where it is?"

"Yes… yes," Kuryakin said, struggling to pull himself together. "I know… Follow me."

It was not so much a matter of following, as Kuryakin grabbed hold of Napoleon's hand and towed him along behind as he went. They began at a brisk walk, but had accelerated to a steady trot by the time they stood in a narrow alley, in front of a scuffed and peeling-paint covered door with the window boarded up. Standing before it and breathing hard, Kuryakin seemed on the verge of a zone-out, until Napoleon reminded him, "Key."

He shook himself, throwing an almost incredulous glance back at Napoleon, then walked a few steps further back into the alley, where a piece of conduit tacked to the brick wall joined another. Kuryakin retrieved the key from a false face on the side of the juncture box and returned to open the door. Upon entering and descending a short flight of stairs, it became apparent to Napoleon that the space had originally been used for coal storage, and a disconnected furnace still took up large corner of the room. A fine layer of black dust remained on every wall and surface, but there was also a bed in the adjacent corner, a counter opposite, with a hotplate and cupboards (hopefully containing a few staples) above, a table with 3 chairs and a washroom, where a sink and a flush toilet (thankfully) were visible.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Napoleon also noted a wooden chest at the foot of the bed which might contain bedding, but he was not given a chance to investigate. Seizing him by the shoulders, Kuryakin… Illya… his Sentinel, pushed Napoleon back towards the bed, stripping his jacket away even as they crossed the short distance from the entrance. For all of three seconds Napoleon had in mind to resist, balking at the idea of laying on the much stained, bare mattress, then Illya was on top of him, shirtless somehow, and kissing his way over every inch of Napoleon's skin, and nothing else mattered.

Wantonly, Napoleon threw his mind open, baring his soul even as he helped Illya bare their bodies. Since his early adolescence, Napoleon had been protecting himself with layers of carefully constructed psychic walls and mental boundaries as a matter of survival. The stronger the Guide, the more necessary those walls, and Napoleon was lucky that his family was easily able to pay their son's tuition at the exclusive Santa Lucia Academy for Guides and Sentinels. In the old days, Guides at the school weren't given any special education for their needs, but merely kept on the campus for the availability of the young Sentinels being trained there.

In Napoleon's day they were at least given instruction on how to manage their empathic abilities, and how to assist their Sentinels, but they were also still trained to submit to any Sentinel who showed interest in them. Napoleon's family fancied themselves politically progressive, however, and encouraged their highly rated Guide son to make his own choices in life. There'd been days that Napoleon wondered whether he'd been too choosey, spoiled into thinking that the 'perfect' Sentinel would come along if only he waited long enough. All those doubts now vanished like a puff of smoke. Napoleon could no more 'choose' to open his mind to his Sentinel than he 'chose' to be thirsty after a day of toiling under the sun.

For it was as if he were thirsty, insatiably so, for the overwhelming and tumultuous presence of his Sentinel. Fearless in his vulnerability, Napoleon welcomed the presence into him, finding that it did not overwhelm, but fit into him like a long missing piece. Indeed, Illya seemed to be physically trying to crawl into Napoleon's skin, having shed his own clothes and done away with most of Napoleon's. As insatiable as Napoleon had been, Illya seemed to want to immerse himself in his Guide, smelling and tasting over every surface of his body, pressing as much of his own skin as he could against Napoleon's.

"What… what is happening?" Illya moaned. "I can't stop… why can't I… ? I want you… I can't stop wanting you.."

"Illya…" Napoleon replied, reaching out to hold Illya's head in his hands, kissing his face as he spoke. "You're my Sentinel. I'm your Guide. This is what we do…"

With what had to have been tremendous control, Illya now drew himself up, seizing Napoleon's hands in both of his to keep them both connected and yet at a distance. "They told me…" he said with great effort, "that I would not need a Guide. My control, my discipline was strong enough, they said. I was able to stop myself from… sensory distraction, you would say, 'zone out'..."

Napoleon drew in an astonished breath. "You control your own zone outs?" Illya nodded.

"Some few of us, Sentinels, are strong enough. We were all told this. Such Sentinels are prized in the KGB… They say we are better without…" Illya bowed his head, breathing hard with the effort of holding himself back.

"Jesus, Illya," Napoleon breathed, disentangling one hand to reach out and touch his Sentinel's face. A faint moan escaped him at the contact. "Well, you've got a Guide now, Agent Kuryakin. All we can do is let nature take its course, and honestly, we can have a good time if you'll just let it."

With something like a whimper, Illya gave up his restraint and propelled himself into Napoleon's arms, burrowing his face into the crook of his Guide's neck. "Just tell me..." he said, voice muffled. "Tell me this madness will pass."

"Of course," Napoleon said, soothing, as he had been trained. "There couldn't be Sentinel and Guide pairs working in the field for UNCLE if it didn't. The urge to rut like weasels will fade after 48 hours or so, and then we'll have a couple of weeks with Agent Fisher to help us sort out our new skill sets."

"I want…" Illya said, now kissing and tasting his way down Napoleon's torso. "I want… things I have never wanted before."

"Oh, trust me, Sentinel mine," Napoleon said, lifting his head to taste for himself, the smooth skin of Illya's chest, the hardening nubs of his nipples. "I want the very same things. You won't hurt me; you can't. Go ahead and take what you want."

Illya gave a gasping cry as he felt Napoleon's teeth on him, then surged up to smother his Guide with another searing kiss. Arousal seized Napoleon's limbs so that he was unable not to wrap his legs around his Sentinel, not to thrust his hips, his hardening sex against Illya's. The same impulse seemed to have consumed Illya, so that his body moved likewise, arms and legs contesting for mastery, his own cock grinding against Napoleon's. Napoleon cried out his Sentinel's name, finding older, deeper barricades within himself and releasing them, throwing himself open to his core.

It was when he felt Illya's presence touch him there, in the very center of him, that Napoleon's physical release came. Back arching, fingers clutching, head tilted back to release open throated cries of ecstasy, Napoleon felt the climax tear through him, and felt Illya's, following like an echo. Illya sobbed out out his rapture as Napoleon felt his own seed and his Sentinel's mix, warm and slick where they thrust against each other.

Napoleon immersed himself in the momentary lassitude which followed, even if it included the warm weight of his all but insensate partner above him. He knew it would not last. Moreover, it was not the weight on top of him, but the considerable presence of his Sentinel within his psyche that was uppermost in Napoleon's mind. Napoleon would never be alone again, until the day his Sentinel died, and that day might well bring a sort of death for Napoleon as well. Illya would find himself similarly afflicted, if the situation were reversed. 

Bonded Sentinels and Guides did not tend to outlive each other by much, and that was one reason that those who were not bonded often thought they were better off. Even now, however, with the intrusion of his Sentinel into his mind new and strange, Napoleon knew he would never regret this… completion of himself. He didn't think Illya would regret it either, once he'd come to terms with it all, but it seemed that his superiors in the KGB had left him entirely unprepared for the possibility. Napoleon had a few things he'd like to say to those responsible… some other time. For now, he wondered if he might prod Illya into rolling aside so that he could procure some kind of bedding before they started going at it again.

Perhaps it was Napoleon's prodding at their new bond, or perhaps it was just Illya's well honed survival skills that impelled him to shift his weight off Napoleon. He raised his head when Napoleon slipped off the bed, watching him as though Napoleon might make a break for it, as he opened the chest and took out one neatly folded set of fairly clean sheets and a blanket. Apparently satisfied, Illya now rose, giving Napoleon room to work, while he padded, naked but for his socks, to the cupboards, where he found a chipped enamel mug, and then to the washroom, where he filled it with water from the sink. 

Napoleon heard him drink and then refill it, feeling Illya's thirst slaked even as other urges began to build once again. Napoleon made short work of making up the bed and was just finishing up when Illya returned with water for Napoleon. He was erect again and flushed with arousal, but waited patiently for Napoleon to drink.

"I knew you were thirsty," Illya said, puzzling over it.

Napoleon finished the refreshingly cold, if irony, water in his cup then leaned forward to kiss Illya on the cheek. "And I know what you're thirsty for now," he whispered wickedly into his Sentinel's ear.

"You," Illya murmured, grabbing the cup from Napoleon's hand and casting it carelessly aside as he seized Napoleon's face to ravish him with a kiss. "Everything about you: your taste, your smell…" Now his began to back Napoleon toward the bed again and Napoleon let him take control, clinging to his Sentinel so their kiss went uninterrupted as he was pushed onto the bed.

"The feel of your skin," Illya continued once Napoleon was prone under him. "The sound of your voice… your heartbeat. I want all these things. They're mine; you are mine."

"Yes!" Napoleon cried as Illya kissed his way down Napoleon's body. "You have me, all of me; take whatever you want."

Napoleon doubted that Illya had ever had sex with a man before, and he had a feeling that the Soviets' prohibition against 'gomoseksualizm' was partially behind their encouragement of Sentinels managing without Guides. Nonetheless, there was no hesitation in Illya's approach to Napoleon's eager and upright cock. He took his time inhaling the very essence of Napoleon's arousal at the base of his cock and balls. Then he was tasting, lips and tongue caressing Napoleon's most secret places and Napoleon writhed helplessly on the bed, wordless cries making their way from his throat with no volition of his own.

The sound he made when Illya's mouth finally came to encompass his sex was unlike any sound Napoleon had ever heard himself make. It wasn't that he'd never had a man's mouth on him before, but the reverberation of pleasure between him and his Sentinel was entirely novel, and just a bit earthshaking. He could not stop his hips thrusting up, but Illya did, strong hands on Napoleon's hips pinning him to the bed. Furthermore, Napoleon could feel Illya's sense of mastery, the arousal that sprang from his control of his Guide and was compelled to thrust harder against that restraint, knowing how it would thrill him.

Illya's grasp only tightened, and Napoleon wondered if Illya felt, in turn, how he loved the strength that held him, how it made him feel safe. There was no artistry to Illya's consuming of Napoleon's cock, but that just made it all the hotter. He clutched at Illya's hair, fingers tightening among the silken strands as his climax neared, and Illya just took him deeper, sucking him down to the root. At that, Napoleon came ferociously, bucking under his Sentinel's grasp and tearing hair. Neither of them cared.

Gently, Illya disentangled Napoleon's fingers from his hair so that he could sit back, and Napoleon thought he actually saw fondness on his Sentinel's face as he regarded his Guide, spent and basking in the fading ripples of his climax. Or perhaps it was anticipation. Even in his post-coital state, Napoleon felt his Sentinel's smoldering desire, and knew what he wanted. Napoleon had possibly never wanted anything so much as he wanted Illya to fuck him right now, but that meant…

"We need… something," Illya said, frowning because he really hadn't ever even imagined doing this before and knew he needed Napoleon's guidance.

"In the cupboards," Napoleon managed. "Crisco… ah, shortening… vegetable oil.." There wouldn't be butter, which Napoleon had used once in a pinch, but what else might do? He felt Illya leave the bed and gazed through shuttered eyes at his rather shapely buttocks as he rummaged through the cupboards.

"Olive oil will do, yes?" he said seizing on something.

"Oh hell yes," said Napoleon, feeling his cock actually stir again at the prospect. Illya poured a small measure of oil into his cupped hand, then recapped the bottle and set it on the bedding chest. Coming to kneel on the bed again, he saw Napoleon's readiness, thighs parted, and recently spent cock already firming up again.

"You… want this," he said, half surprised, half aroused.

"Oh, hell yes," Napoleon repeated.

"I want… but I am not sure," Illya said, dipping a couple of fingers in the oil and tracing them around the edge of Napoleon's opening. Napoleon gasped in pleasure.

"Just… follow your instincts," he said, unsteadily. "I want what you want. Trust me." Their eyes met as he said this last, and their minds met in that moment too. He felt Illya understand, at last, how their bond worked, saw the realization in his eyes that they were, at that moment, literally of one mind. Fearlessly, Illya pressed his two fingers into Napoleon's opening, even as he leaned over him to kiss him.

Consumed with longing, Napoleon surged up into the kiss, driven half mad with anticipation as he heard the slick sounds of Illya working the rest of the oil over his cock. He thrust against Illya's penetrating fingers, crying out, "Yes!" when he felt a third join them. He knew what he wanted, what he needed, and so Illya knew as well. The fingers worked into him, pressing deep and stretching, only to withdraw again, leaving him bereft. He only realized he was begging once the words had left his mouth. Illya stopped his pleas with another kiss.

"I'll give you what you need," he murmured against Napoleon's lips. "But I won't hurt you. I'll take you when you're ready; then I'll fill you so full…"

"Please!" Napoleon could not stop the words, nor his hips thrusting, nor his hands clutching at the bedding.

"Soon, now, Guide," Illya promised, kissing and nipping his way over Napoleon's skin. "Very… very soon…" Illya's voice was shaking, for all his pretense of control, and his hands, parting Napoleon's thighs, were less than steady.

Napoleon held still now, for he felt what he could not see, that Illya was positioning his cock, and a moment later he felt it press against his entrance. With panting breaths he felt himself stretched, moaning through the frisson of fear he felt at being penetrated. Then there was the thing he'd desired, the sensation of someone moving inside of him, touching deep within him, just as Illya's presence lived inside his mind now.

"Yes!" Napoleon cried, and heard Illya's cry in unison with his. He laughed, even as he arched his back to take his Sentinel deeper. This was everything he had hoped for and despaired of ever finding. This was what he was meant for, what he had trained all his life for, and worth every day of waiting. Illya seemed lost in the rhythm of his own thrusting, craving more, wanting to move faster, plunge himself deeper. Napoleon wanted nothing less.

Time seemed to slip away from them both, this moment of pleasure taking and giving having neither a beginning nor an end. This was their core, their eternal moment, which would live within each of them as long as they both lived. This was the focal point from which Napoleon would draw his strength as he supported his Sentinel, and the place to which Illya could retreat when his senses became too much.

Even as he felt this truth settle into his heart, Napoleon also felt the tremors moving through his body that signalled an approaching climax. He shouted as he felt himself swept away towards his conclusion, propelled forward with every thrust of Illya's cock into his body. "Illya!" he cried. "My Illya, yes, yes, yes…!"

Molten pleasure coursed through him as Napoleon shouted wordlessly, felt his body contracting around Illya's cock as it continued to thrust. But now Illya's hands on his hips tightened, a sudden profanity escaping him as his whole body seemed to be trying to drive itself into Napoleon's. Illya cried out his Guide's name, long and loud, as if in agony, but Napoleon felt the ecstasy of orgasm echo through him, like an aftershock of his own.

Illya's hips continued to stutter and thrust for several moments as Illya's climax faded. He collapsed beside Napoleon at last, breath sobbing in his throat as he lifted a shaky hand to rest on Napoleon's face.

"My Guide," he said, pale blue eyes wide with wonder.

"My Sentinel," Napoleon whispered, pressing Illya's fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes then, feeling the bond warm and pulsing between them, and discovering a comfort of a sort he never could have imagined. The comfort curled over him like a blanket, and Napoleon fell asleep without even realizing it.

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~


	3. Act II: "I won't start anything if you don't."

It took Illya longer than usual to recall where he was and why he was there when he woke the next morning. It was the sense of deep contentment and comfort that confused him the most, for this was not a state to which he had ever been used. Comfort made one soft, lead one to a sense of security which was always false. Comfort was never meant to be his lot in life—not when he was a child scrounging for food in famine torn Ukraine, not when he'd trained to be a Naval officer, and certainly not in the KGB.

Yet he was suffused with these sensations as he woke and, stranger still, these comforts were not associated with the rather prosaic bed in which he'd slept (and done other things as well, it was dawning on Illya) but the man who slept next to him in it. Even as he sat up in the bed, Illya found himself loath to give up the contact with the warm body beside him. Brushing his fingers over smooth skin, Illya was beset by a memory of waking earlier, in the small hours, to the sensation of this man… his Guide, sucking on the skin over his collarbone, hands caressing him everywhere, body pressed along the length of his.

The memory seemed like that of a dream, of his mouth coming to cover Illya's cock, of himself, thrusting sleepily into that mouth as his fingers clumsily tangled in his Guide's dark locks. It seemed like a dream, but Illya knew that it wasn't and he didn't need to see the man's tousled hair against the pillow where he slept for evidence. His eyes fell there anyhow, lingering over the delicate, aristocratic features of his sleeping Guide. The urge to touch, to kiss, to serve him as he had been served just hours ago, was all but irresistible, but Illya mastered himself.

He, the Superior Soviet, would rise above these base instincts, as he had been trained. Yes, the Sentinel within him was a creature of nearly pure instinct, even his Soviet trainers admitted as much, but he would be made to serve Illya's ends, not the other way around. There was a mission, and when Illya focused on this he found himself able to pull himself away from his new and unasked-for Guide, and make plans for how best to move forward with that mission.

Icy cold water from the sink in the washroom, applied with a washrag, erased the physical traces of last night, and sharpened the mind abruptly when applied to certain reluctant appendages. Last night's trousers and underwear were still wearable, though the shirt was torn badly. Happily, Illya discovered a few items of clothing beneath the bedding in the trunk, and the dark turtle-neck sweater he found there fit him perfectly, with the added benefit of covering the mark his Guide had made last night.

Next he set about making coffee, and while that was brewing Illya procured powdered eggs, canned ham and canned hash-browns from one of the cupboards, and found a skillet and bowl from another. He was just mixing up the eggs when his Guide awoke.

"Coffee! Brilliant!" he said, throwing the bedclothes off to reveal his complete nakedness without a trace of shame. Illya kept his back turned, mixing the eggs.

"But why the clothes, Sentinel mine?" By not looking, Illya missed the man coming up behind him, and stiffened, drawing a controlling breath when he felt his Guide press his whole body up against his, arms wrapping around his waist.

"We have a mission, Agent Solo," he said, carefully keeping his voice steady. "Since it was impressed upon us both the threat to world peace constituted by this situation, I assumed that you would also wish to rejoin our fellow agents in the field as soon as possible." Illya was relieved to note that the 'Agent Solo' had the man stepping back, but he remained facing away, and those eggs were getting the beating of a lifetime.

"The name's Napoleon," his Guide said, neutral voiced, "which you had no trouble remembering last night, but you can't tell me you think we're done. We've hardly started, Sentinel."

"I am most certainly done," Illya said, making himself stop beating the eggs. "If you believe there is really more of this 'bonding' to be done, I suspect that it is more a matter of your bourgeois conditioning. I believe that our duty to UNCLE takes precedent over any further self gratification."

There was a pause, then the sound of Napoleon shuffling away to sit on the bed. "Right," he said. "Bourgeois conditioning. Must be."

Illya continued to ignore him as he set the eggs aside and poured himself a cup of the now brewed coffee. He usually took it with sugar and cream, but he was feeling abstemious this morning. The brew was bitter and seared his tongue (and yet could not sear away the memory of the velvet texture of his Guide's cock there…) He grabbed the skillet to set on the hot plate, then realized he would need oil.

"Looking for this?" Napoleon asked, velvet voiced, suddenly standing at Illya's side and holding the bottle of olive oil. He was, mercifully, wearing his pants, but that was all. Illya took it carefully, as the whole surface was slick with spilled oil (which he'd spilled coating his fingers to lubricate Napoleon's opening, to press into him, feeling slick, hot flesh, enclosing…)

Illya drew in a harsh, steadying breath and set the bottle of oil on the counter. "There are spare sweaters in the chest," he said. "I imagine you'll find one there that fits."

The rest their meal passed with a minimum of conversation, though Napoleon did not behave himself entirely. Illya had never seen anyone consume such commonplace foods so seductively, and Illya ended up wondering if Napoleon had learned these tricks in training to be a honey-trap, or if he was just naturally talented. Napoleon did more than his share of the tidying up afterwards, however, making Illya regret the 'bourgeois conditioning' remark, but not enough to take it back, Not when he knew what that would lead to.

Illya's Guide did behave himself once they were out on the street, however, and they ended up checking back in at UNCLE Munich's headquarters at around 10:30 that morning. Both the receptionist, and Senior Agent Altergott gave them odd looks, but had their train tickets to Zwiesel ready in time to catch the noon train. The train was a full one, with a mix of workers, school children, travelling families and businessmen, and Napoleon was all business for the entire trip.

He was ever so slightly flirtatious with Agent Fischer when she met them at the train station, but Illya had a feeling that this was as normal as breathing for Napoleon, who knew as well as he did that Agent Fischer was, herself, a bonded Sentinel. She was also not exactly young, being fifty-ish, with her salt and pepper curls cropped relatively short. They met her Guide and husband, Herr Mateus Fischer, retired professor of ornithology and amature nature photographer at the closed-for-the-season holiday lodge where they'd be based for the duration of the mission.

Their cover personas, she informed them over beer and a late afternoon snack of rustic pate and rye rolls, were of American and British business partners looking for investment properties in the area, including the place where they were staying. Agent Fischer, who would be 'showing them around' various potential properties, was well known locally as her family had been gamekeepers for the nobility hereabouts for generations.

"We became Park Rangers when the nobility became a thing of the past," she explained. "My dad was a Sentinel and a Ranger for the Böhmerwald National Forest, north of here, he showed me all the old trails and back ways. The real mission is going to be patrolling some of those routes, looking for signs of recent activity, and checking for radioactive traces. That will mostly take place late at night or very early in the morning. During the day we'll be putting in appearances at local pubs and talking about what a popular tourist destination this is and how much money you could make."

"Seems simple enough," Napoleon said. Illya nodded, as well.

"More or less," their hostess said. "Which is convenient, since that leaves plenty of time for your training as a bonded pair."

"That's right," Napoleon said enthusiastically. "Agent Altergott said that UNCLE would provide a trainer. Is that you?"

"I am, in fact, a certified trainer for Sentinels and bonded pairs," she replied with a smile. "My Guide is a certified Guide trainer as well, if you feel you need any brushing up in your Guide skills, Agent Solo."

Illya waited for Napoleon to offhandedly mention he was fine but that his Sentinel possibly had a few shortcomings, but Napoleon only nodded, saying that he appreciated having the option.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in character, as Mr Franklin (Napoleon) and Mr Symington (Illya), while Agent Fisher gave them a cursory tour and introduced them around at a few pubs. Beer, and lots of it, was the social lubricant of choice, but this was nothing new to Illya, nor it seemed to Napoleon, who managed himself professionally and, when they returned to their lodgings, proved to have been gathering intelligence at the same time.

"That fellow, Gruber, we met at the Black Boar," he said as they finished the evening in front of the fire with a nightcap. "He's hiding something, and badly."

"Very good," Fischer said with a smile. "He's in a bad situation with his taxes and desperately wants to sell his ski lodge, but he doesn't want the buyer to find out that the foundations are bad, and the whole building is in danger of falling off the mountain. Unfortunately, nearly everyone in town already knows it."

Illya glanced over at Napoleon, expecting to see him looking smug, but found him instead looking thoughtful.

"Agent Kuryakin," Fischer said now. "Were you able to catch that your Guide had spotted someone acting suspiciously?" Illya shook his head, quashing the instinctive resentment he felt at having his effectiveness questioned.

"I've found that most newly bonded Sentinels have no idea how much more their Guide can do for them than they realize," Agent Fischer said with a knowing smile. "And that most Guides don't realize how many ways they can help their Sentinel, besides regulating their senses. You'll both have your first taste, first thing tomorrow morning."

She rubbed her hands gleefully at this, and Illya saw reflected on his Guide's face the same mix of curiosity and trepidation he felt himself. So maybe he and his hopelessly bourgeois Guide had something in common after all.

She'd given them a room with a single large bed to share, of course. Illya met Napoleon's gaze over said bed, uncertain whether they were on the same page in this regard as well.

"I won't start anything if you don't," Napoleon said with a sigh. "We're on a mission and have an early morning ahead, as I'm sure you'll agree."

"Of course," Illya replied and set about preparing for bed as if he were alone. Napoleon took a bit longer than he did, so Illya was already in bed when Napoleon returned from the baths down the hall. He turned off the light as he lay beside Illya, and dutifully kept his hands to himself. Illya, curled with his back to Napoleon, assumed he would have no trouble falling asleep, as he'd certainly shared beds with other agents on a mission many times in the past. He was unprepared for how much he wanted to roll over and take his Guide in his arms, just to sleep.

Napoleon would undoubtedly call this 'starting something' however, and that would lead to a rather less sleepful night than they both wanted. Determined that this not be the case, Illya willed himself to ignore the urge and, after longer than he would have liked, finally dropped off to sleep. There were no words for the dismay he felt upon waking the next morning to find Napoleon in his arms, just the same.

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

The training proved to be grueling, as Napoleon suspected, but also enlightening. It had been difficult not to resent the way he'd been dismissed that morning in the safe house, but Napoleon tempered his resentment with the knowledge that Illya Kuryakin had been lied to for much of his life as a Sentinel, about just what bonding with a Guide meant. Napoleon had harboured a secret wish, that Illya would find himself 'put in his place' by the bonded pair training, but found, to his chagrin that they both had a lot to learn about their respective 'places'. Agent Fischer and her Guide had introduced many UNCLE Sentinel Guide pairs to the unexpected aspects of their new relationships, and were unfailingly kind and understanding about it.

That first morning they engaged in several variations on the game of Hide and Seek, with Illya seeking Napoleon, constrained to seeking by scent alone, or by sound, or by following his trail by touch through the brush and grasses of the surrounding forest land. Over the next few days Illya was also made to identify Napoleon's heartbeat from among a dozen others, with that sound alone to go on. He would use his Guide's heartbeat, he was told, to orient or ground himself, even in the heat of battle or the depth of a crisis.

Napoleon, for his part, was made to carefully examine his own body language and nonverbal expressions, and to develop a consistent set of cues by which Illya could know that someone was lying, hiding something, or seemed uneasy or hostile for no evident reason. Napoleon was also taught how to modulate his voice so that it could be identified and understood by his Sentinel under a variety of types of cacophony.

These exercises took place both indoors and out, and at different times of day. In addition, there were daily, and sometimes nightly excursions into the nearby mountains and forests, partially to inspect for signs of recent use on certain trails, and partially for Illya to stretch his senses out in a natural setting and to see how much farther he could stretch them with Napoleon at his side.

Raised a city boy, Napoleon had learned how to survive in a wilderness setting from his military training and UNCLE's famous Survival School, but had little other experience with woodland lore. Agent Fischer, naturally, was a font of it, and her Guide as avid a birdwatcher as anyone Napoleon had ever met. Napoleon tried his best to spot the little signs and clues of the forest life happening all around him, but naturally missed the majority of the things that the two Sentinels and the veteran birdwatcher spotted everywhere.

One afternoon as the four of them were making the short hike from town to a low mountain pass where a couple of trails intersected, Napoleon found himself catching a glimpse of something moving in the underbrush, always just from the corner of his eye, and never giving him more than a fleeting impression of sleek brown fur and a long tail.

"What are you looking for, Agent Solo?" Fischer finally noticed him squinting off into the brush for the umpteenth time.

"I don't know. Maybe nothing," Napoleon said, tired of being the least observant person in their little group. "I just keep seeing, or thinking I'm seeing, something following me in the grass and bushes by the path, but I never seem to be able to get a good look at it."

Agent Fischer paused, sniffing at the air like a hunting dog, then turned to her Guide. "You notice anything?" She asked. Herr Fischer shook his head and Napoleon waved it off.

"I'm probably just seeing things. Or hoping to be the first one to spot something interesting for once," he said.

"Not necessarily," Agent Fischer said. "What, if anything, were the two of you taught about Spirit Animals?"

Napoleon shrugged. "That the more powerful Sentinels and Guides sometimes have them, and that nothing more is really known about them," he said.

"My instructors in the KGB told me that they are, more than likely, superstitious nonsense," Illya said. "But this may well have had more to do with the Party's take on the matter than their own actual opinions."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows to hear Illya confess any bias in his training, but perhaps the last few days had served to change his perspective somewhat. Agent Fischer nodded, evidently unsurprised at their answers and led them forward again.

"More probably could be known," she said after a moment, "but they're not the kind of thing that can be tested empirically. Furthermore, Guides and Sentinels who are in touch with their Spirit Animals tend to feel their relationships with these… manifestations as deeply private, and seldom share their experiences with researchers. I actually tried, once, because I thought that someone ought to do something to lift the cloud of ignorance around Spirit Animals, but I found I couldn't really explain anything to the researcher that he could make any sense of."

"So, you yourself… are in touch with your Spirit Animal?" Illya asked. Napoleon could hear where Illya had carefully excised the words 'claim to be' from his question, and figured Agent Fischer would give him credit for at least trying to keep his skepticism at bay.

"Both my Guide and I interact with our Spirit Animals fairly regularly," she answered. "We both began noticing them more after we bonded, but I know for a fact that other, generally more powerful Sentinels and Guides saw theirs long before they met their bond mates. I suspect it has to do with the environment a young Guide or Sentinel grows up in, and how accepting their families and teachers are of such things."

"So…" Napoleon asked hopefully, "You think that what I saw might possibly have been my Spirit Animal?"

"Possibly," Agent Fischer cautioned. "If it was, he probably won't show any more of himself while Mati and I are here, but if he is ready to show himself to you, I suggest taking a little quiet time to yourself, it doesn't matter where, and keep your mind open to the possibility. You're both strong enough to have them."

This proved much food for thought as they continued on their way, and that plus the lovely mountain vistas and wildflower strewn meadows they passed left the party in silence as they walked. The pass was evident when they came to it, as was the intersection of two well kept footpaths, each identified with different color-coded trail markers painted on adjacent trees and boulders.

A small stream passed through here, inviting a drink from its cool waters with a splashing serenade, and the narrow defile they'd been walking through opened out into a broad, green meadow. Just off the trail, standing at the high end of the sloping meadow, stood a sort of hut on stilts, built in a rustic manner, with the small logs used in its construction still covered in bark.

"What's that?" Napoleon asked as Agent Fischer led them to a large flat rock where she sat and removed her pack—a signal that they were stopping for lunch at last. 

"Gamekeeper's blind," Agent Fischer answered as she sliced up a sausage and some cheese. "It's the Park Rangers that use them now, to keep an eye on the local wildlife."

"Not for hunting, then?" Napoleon asked, taking a rye roll and tearing it in half.

"In the fall sometimes, especially when the deer need culling." The Sentinel took a handful of grapes as she replied.

"The deer don't have any natural predators here any more," Herr Fischer put in. "Not since wolves were eradicated, more than a century ago. I believe there are still a few black bears and lynxes to be found in the Bohemian Forest, as well as foxes and hunting birds, so the populations of small animals, mice and rabbits and such, are usually self regulating, but not the deer."

"What would you say is the most dangerous animal we might encounter around here?" Napoleon asked.

"Oh, that would be the wild boars," Herr Fischer said. "Especially at this time of year."

"Why this time of year?" Napoleon asked, feeling very much the city slicker, as the other three all seemed to know the answer immediately.

"Is the same in all European forests," Illya replied. "If you see the babies, go away, quickly, but do not run. Also with bears."

"They're the most darling little things," Agent Fischer said. "My father found one that had lost its mama when I was a little girl, and we had to nurse it and raise it up at home till it was big enough to go back into the forest. Illya's right, though. If you see baby boars, move away quietly, as fast as you can. The mothers are ferocious."

"I'll keep that in mind," Napoleon said. "So do you ever have to 'cull' the boars?"

"Oh, sure," said Agent Fischer, pointing to the sausage they were eating. "They don't have any natural predators here either."

"And on top of that, they're delicious," Napoleon said with a smile.

 

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~


	4. Act III: "Good morning Sisters!"

The conversation lapsed as the food, which was all delicious, engaged everyone's attention. Once most of the victuals had been consumed and a bottle of wine passed around till it was three quarters empty, Agent Fischer told them about the two trails that crossed here, where they led and where they started, and the history of what other smugglers had been known to use them.

"So our smugglers could be using this very path here?" Napoleon asked.

Agent Fischer nodded. "We've been watching it occasionally, but staking it out would probably just result in the smugglers choosing a different route."

"Have you checked the gamekeepers blind here, or others like it, for signs of anyone staying there?" Illya asked. "It seems a likely place for them to overnight."

"I doubt that smugglers would use one of these blinds," Agent Fischer replied. "They know that the Park Rangers often use them, so they'd probably want to keep clear."

Napoleon blinked. Not only was Agent Fischer's answer slightly illogical, Napoleon got the distinct impression that she was evading in some way. She did not want to talk about that blind. Remembering the non-verbal cues he'd just worked out with Illya, he glanced in his Sentinel's direction, scowling in a certain way as he adjusted his shirt collar.

Illya's eyebrows rose, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged. He accepted the wine bottle from Herr Fischer and tipped it back to finish the last swallow, then stood and explained that he was going to answer a 'call of nature'.

"I believe I am hearing the same call," Herr Fischer said, heading off in the opposite direction from Illya.

Napoleon watched Illya head off across the meadow towards the tree line—not directly towards the bind, but he bet that Illya would end up passing relatively close by before he returned. He turned back to help Agent Fischer pack up the remains of their lunch and saw that she had not missed his curiosity about the blind.

"You seemed pretty sure that the smugglers would stay clear of any blinds," Napoleon said, admitting to his interest.

"I guess it might seem strange to an American," she replied. "But history lies over everything here. The histories of smugglers and poachers versus gamekeepers are literally told in both song and story around these parts. And those who secretly carry goods and people across the border here are like me, from families with a long history of doing the same. Those blinds are gamekeeper territory, and smugglers won't go near them—out of tradition as much as anything."

There it was again. Nearly all of what she was saying was true—the best way to hide a lie, Napoleon knew—but that which was true was being used to cover up something which was not. She didn't want them investigating the blinds, or at least, not this one.

"You're right," Napoleon said, wondering if his prowess as a Guide would extend to hiding his own doubts from this Sentinel. "We don't have that sense of history in America, and we're sort of expected to defy those sorts of patterns when we encounter them. That's the American way, but, as they say, when in Rome…" Napoleon finished with his most beguiling smile, and it seemed to work.

Illya and Herr Fischer both wandered back to their picnic spot about the time that Napoleon and Agent Fischer had finished packing up. On the way back she directed Napoleon to go ahead of them while they waited for a few minutes, and then whistle a medley of songs which Illya would have to identify when they got back.

"Mati and I have our own 'whistle code' based on birdsongs," Agent Fischer explained as Napoleon set off, "but you might do better developing one based on tunes you know."

It was a good idea, Napoleon reflected, then tried to compile a list of songs in his mind which he could whistle that Illya would be able to identify. He settled on a mix of popular tunes, well known classics and a few Christmas carols, and began with 'Dixie', feeling like flaunting his Americanness just a little. He then challenged his whistling chops by trying the Russian Dance from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker. The sun was just moving over towards the west but still high in the sky, and shining brightly, tempered by a light mountain breeze. The path was an easy downhill grade and Napoleon was feeling a little of the wine he'd drunk with lunch, which made the whistling come all the easier.

He was melodiously making his way through the slow movement of Dvořak's New World Symphony when Napoleon suddenly had the feeling that he was not alone on the path. Without missing a beat in his music making, Napoleon slowed ever so slightly and carefully unfocused his gaze. The thing at the corner of his eye was there again, moving lithely through the tall grass at his side. He let his pace drop to a relaxed saunter and concentrated on the flow of his music, adding a bit of vibrato to the melody.

That Dvořak fellow had been from somewhere around here, hadn't he? Napoleon was just thinking that something about the tune suited the beauty of the natural surroundings when the moving something at the side of the path suddenly gambolled right onto it. Napoleon stopped in his tracks, and found himself gazing into the dark eyes and bemused and mustachioed face of an otter. He'd stopped whistling, Napoleon realised, and the otter seemed to want him to take it up again. When he did the animal loped about on the path before him, moving its sinuous body with the music.

Napoleon didn't need any of the local nature experts to tell him that this was not a natural animal. He felt his heart race at the realization as he began moving forward again. He had a Spirit Animal! His Spirit Animal was an Otter! The grin that formed on his face of its own accord made it hard to whistle, but he eventually schooled himself to the task and started once again, striding happily down the path as he whistled 'Joy to the World'.

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

Illya proudly listed each of the tunes Napoleon had whistled accurately, and thanked Agent Fischer when she complimented him. He did not ask Napoleon at that time why he had stopped whistling in the middle. Perhaps, as Agent Fischer suggested he might, he was learning to 'read' his Guide in subtle ways. Illya knew without asking that what had happened in that gap was something Napoleon wanted to keep private.

Illya also wanted to speak to Napoleon in private, about what he'd observed around the gamekeeper's blind. The best time for this proved to be after dinner, when they'd all retired for the evening to their own respective rooms. He and Napoleon had relaxed a bit about sleeping in the same bed together, but Illya could tell that Napoleon wished for more when they lay next to each other. He could tell in part because he wanted the same thing, and it annoyed him.

He had to at least admire his Guide's self control, because if Napoleon had ever tried to get closer in bed, Illya was not sure he would be able to resist. He was growing to admire a few of Napoleon's other qualities as well, in their various exercises. He was quick to adapt in an unfamiliar situation, even tempered, and a gifted and astute empath. UNCLE had sent them each other's dossiers by secure courier, as was policy for UNCLE's newly bonded Sentinel Guide pairs, and Illya was now familiar with Agent Napoleon Solo's impressive record as a young UNCLE agent as well.

However Illya felt about having a Guide, he found he had no complaints about having Solo as a partner. They worked well together, which was not something that Illya said about many other people, UNCLE agents or otherwise. For that reason Illya found himself struggling to hold on to the resentment he felt for having a Guide 'foist' upon him, and actually looked forward to hearing what Napoleon thought about his findings.

"Okay, I've been curious all afternoon," Napoleon began without preamble the second the door to their room was closed. "What did you find at the blind. You did check it out while you were 'watering a tree', right?"

"I did," Illya said once he'd puzzled through Napoleon's curious euphemism. "Someone, or several someones, have been there within the last week, and I don't think they were park rangers."

"No?" Napoleon asked, sitting on the bed to unbutton his shirt. "Why not?"

"I don't think rangers generally wear cologne," Illya said with a frown, back turned to Napoleon as he removed his gun and holster. "And they don't have infants with them."

"Infants? Like a baby?" Napoleon said. "What makes you think there was a baby?"

"Babies smell terribly," Illya said, coming to sit with his back to Napoleon, now in his underwear. "Sour milk and dirty diapers, and they throw up all the time."

"And you smelled that?" Napoleon asked, rising to don a robe and collect his shower things.

"It was impossible not to," Illya said, making a face. "Which means that Agent Fischer had to know that someone was making unauthorized use of the blind, and doesn't want us to know."

"That's what it seems like to me too," Napoleon said. "Maybe we ought to plan a little unauthorized reconnoiter ourselves. Just not tonight."

Illya agreed, as they'd worn themselves out today with an early morning exercise and then the afternoon hike, and agreed to discuss it once Napoleon had returned from his shower. When he did, robed and and barefoot, and freshly shaved, Illya realized that Napoleon no longer used any colognes or scented aftershaves. Like most Sentinels, Illya had little tolerance for such things in close quarters, and he recalled that the cologne Napoleon had been wearing when they first met was more subdued than most, but now he wore none at all.

He considered thanking Napoleon for his consideration as the man hung up his robe and came to sit beside Illya on the bed, dressed in his shorts and undershirt, just as Illya was. Thinking about the cologne Napoleon no longer wore, however, Illya now realized that he was exposed to his Guide's natural scent, which now seemed to him more intoxicating than any cologne. Without thinking, he drew in a long breath just to fill his lungs with it, then found himself utterly distracted by a desire to pull Napoleon into his arms and indulge himself in his Guide's scent and taste and… Illya shook himself and picked up the map he'd been examining, adjusting his glasses.

"I've located the trail crossing where we had lunch on this map," he said, ignoring Napoleon's odd look. "This trail passes quite near the border, just as Agent Fischer said. If smugglers are using this trail, I can't imagine they wouldn't use that blind to shelter in."

They easily worked out the route they'd taken to get there, and tentatively planned to sneak out tomorrow night, after the nighttime training exercise Agent Fischer had planned for them. She'd expect them to head for bed after such an excursion, but if they surreptitiously headed back out instead, that would have Illya and Napoleon arriving at the crossroads near the gamekeeper's blind an hour or so before sunrise. Plans set, Illya removed his glasses and set the map on the bedside table, preparing to go to sleep.

"I like the look—with the glasses, I mean," Napoleon said, pausing before turning off his light. "It shows a different side of you, one I hadn't seen before."

Illya snapped his own light off, finding Napoleon's smile a bit too beguiling. "I need them to read small print," he said, consternated, and waited for Napoleon to turn his light off, but he didn't.

"I think I saw my Spirit animal today," he said quietly, and Illya suddenly remembered the gap in his whistling.

"That was when you stopped, in the middle of the Dvořak," Illya said.

"Yeah, that was when," Napoleon replied. "It was an otter, if you can imagine. It… he, I think, kinda played around in the grass and loped alongside me as I walked for a while, then he scampered off into the undergrowth… but I just knew it wasn't a real animal. I don't even know if otters live around here."

"Not anymore," Illya said. "Or if there are a few left, they certainly wouldn't come anywhere near where people live."

"Yeah… that's what I thought," Napoleon said, finally dowsing his light. "G'night."

"Good night," Illya replied automatically, musing on how having an otter as his Spirit animal suited Napoleon, and yet how, as seeing him in glasses had made Napoleon see his Sentinel in a new light, this showed Illya his Guide in a new light. It was strange how he could absolutely believe the truth of Napoleon's experience and yet be sceptical that he would have any such experience himself. It was stranger still to find himself wishing that he could have a Spirit Animal, to see it and interact with it, as Agent Fischer said she did, and at the same time be convinced that what he'd learned in his youth was incontrovertibly true, and that Spirit Animals were mere superstition.

This cognitive dissonance kept Illya awake far longer than he would like to admit and whenever he opened his eyes to the dark room, he found himself searching for some form to the shadows that might be waiting just for him.

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

Agent Fischer kept them working the next night, throwing and catching eggs in the dark, until around two am. Nobody actually got egg on their face, but several eggs did meet their ends on the gravel carpark where they were practicing, mainly due to Illya's instinctive tendency to duck out of the way rather than trying to catch them. Everyone got a good laugh out of the near misses and Napoleon felt nothing but good-natured regard from their Sentinel trainer as they said their goodnights. She seemed not to have the least suspicion that her trainees had any further agenda for the evening.

Napoleon and Illya went through the motions of their usual before bed routines, then waited another quarter hour before slipping out their ground floor window. It was a new moon, which raised the odds of smugglers being about, but made it harder to find the way. Illya's finely honed senses managed it without much difficulty, however, so the two of them made their way to the trailhead without a single wrong turning. The trail itself was not hard to follow, as the forest was relatively thin here, with the trees set well back from the trail.

Napoleon wondered if his otter would show himself again, but reflected that he would hardly be visible in the deeply shadowed undergrowth. He also wondered, not for the first time, what Illya's Spirit Animal would prove to be. He had no doubts that his Sentinel had one, and would eventually see it, but Napoleon also suspected that Illya himself likely felt differently.

They made good time, and arrived at the trail crossing around an hour before dawn. They slowed as they approached the open meadow, but Illya sensed no sign of activity… save for near the blind.

"There is someone in there," Illya said quietly. "I can hear at least one of them snoring. There is also an odd scent… a sort of smoky perfume, very pungent, even though I can tell it's just a trace."

Perhaps it was Illya's gift of description, or an indicator of just how well in sync their minds were, but as Napoleon wracked his brain to identify the smell Illya was describing, he found himself inexplicably reminded of something he hadn't experienced since his youth… every Sunday morning at the Santa Lucia Academy.

"Frankincense?" Napoleon said suddenly. Beside him, Illya straightened, gaze as distant as Napoleon's had been a moment ago.

"It was one of the things I was made to learn," Illya said, "In Navy training for Sentinels. Many, many scents, simply to memorize… Yes. Yes! I remember it now. It is Frankincense."

"Ah ha," Napoleon said thoughtfully, then he stepped off the trail. "Well then, we can be pretty sure there's no uranium smugglers holed up in that blind tonight. C'mon."

Without waiting for his Sentinel, Napoleon strode fearlessly across the meadow towards the blind. Illya followed after him, hissing for him to explain himself, but Napoleon figured that it would be a lot less complicated to let the revealed facts explain themselves. The sorts of people whose clothes carried the smell of Frankincense were nearly exclusively limited to members of the clergy, who, Napoleon knew full well, had good reason to need a smuggler's services these days, in Soviet Czechoslovakia.

Fearless but not foolhardy, Napoleon paused at the base of the little ladder which led to the open 'door' of the blind, to see if his Sentinel caught any indications of something more dangerous.

"Any firearms?" He asked all but silently, knowing that Illya would smell any such.

"Something… old, not used in a long time, a little rusty," he said, frowning. "Still possibly functional."

"They won't use it," Napoleon said, feeling the mostly sleeping presences within matching up with what he expected. He climbed up the ladder a couple of steps and reached up to knock gently on the side of the opening.

"Pardon for the disturbance," he said in English, knowing the language would put them at ease more than his words. "But I'm afraid you're trespassing in a National Forest facility."

A dark figure moved in the shadows within the blind, but Napoleon could see little bits of white, mainly short cropped white hair, a very pale face, and below it, a band of white at his collar. "What do you want?" asked a voice in highly accented English. "We were told to wait here."

"Forgive me Father," Napoleon said, feeling very strange to be saying those words again after so very many years. "We're agents from the U.N.C.L.E.—you can see our ID cards if you like—and we're investigating a case of cross border smuggling, but you're not who we expected to find."

"U.N.C.L.E.?" the priest asked. "You won't send us back?"

"No we won't, will we Illya?" Napoleon asked, glancing back at his partner.

"No," Illya said with a sigh. "We will not."

"He's a Russian!" The Father exclaimed with alarm, and here, at last, was the gun, a real museum piece, probably not fired since the days of the Austro Hungarian Empire.

"Take it easy, Father," Napoleon said, reaching up to point the gun away, then gently took it from his trembling hands. "He's an UNCLE agent too, first and foremost."

The Priest's frightened cry had waked the other occupants of the blind, who must have been utterly exhausted to have been sleeping in the first place, crowded into the tiny blind. Their voices came out of the dark, querulous and speaking in Czech.

"Good morning, Sisters," Napoleon said gently. "No KGB; no StB. Father, do they understand Russian?"

They did, of course, so Illya now explained, in slow, patient Russian, that no one would be taken back to the East, but that for UNCLE's investigation they needed to wait and find out who was coming to meet them. The three nuns, not one under 60 years of age, remained in the blind to rest while the Father, who was not particularly young himself, came down the ladder to wait with them. Napoleon offered him a cigarette, which he accepted gratefully.

"First the State takes over the monastery; this we expect," he said as he exhaled smoke into the cool night air. "Then they forbid young people to enter orders, which we also expect, but then last year they close everything down, store farm equipment in rectory, send sisters to work on collective farm, brothers to the mines." The man shook his head, resigned rather than angry.

"I tell the farm manager, the sisters, they are too old to work," he continued and Napoleon could hear the despair in his voice. "The manager… he is… surovec a beast, he laughs, says they have been parasites whole life, now they must work."

Napoleon, who had not attended Mass since those days at St Lucia's, still found his blood boiling to hear how these Holy Sisters had been mistreated, and even Illya, patrolling their perimeter as he listened, scowled deeply.

"He gives them the worst jobs, and I see that he wants them to die…" The Priest shook his head again and dropped the cigarette, crushing it out with his foot. "So I sell some things on the black market, church things, God forgive me, and use money to pay for guide over mountains. He leaves us here, says someone will come for us. That is all I know. Before God I swear it."

"We believe you, Father," Napoleon said sincerely. "And it's not that we suspect whoever is coming for you of doing anything wrong either, we just think they might know something that could help us… stop some bad people from doing something very dangerous. Here's my UNCLE ID, by the way."

The Priest took Napoleon's proffered card, and borrowed his lighter to be able to read it, though there was a faint hint of light on the eastern horizon now. "I have heard of UNCLE," the priest said as he handed it back. "It worries me when even the Soviets say you do good in the world, but I understand why it must be so."

"The Politbureau is not always pleased with UNCLE's goals," Illya said, appearing silently at Napoleon's side. "But UNCLE helps them solve problems they would be unable to solve without starting World War III. The mission we are working on now is a case in point."

"You are a Sentinel," the priest said, pointing at Illya, though not with accusation.

"Yes," Illya said, glancing at Napoleon before he continued. "And this is my Guide."

"You are a Russian Sentinel, and your Guide is… American?" The man said with astonishment. Napoleon and Illya both nodded.

 _"Panebože!"_ he exclaimed. "Is such a thing truly possible?"

"It is with UNCLE," Napoleon answered, pleased at how the fact of their pairing had won the confidence of this man when nothing else had. Excitedly, he stepped over to the blind to tell this news to the Sisters in rapid-fire Czech while Illya headed back towards the trail crossing, senses alert for anyone approaching. A few moments later, Napoleon saw him raise his hand to signal silence and Napoleon passed the advice on to the exiled clergy in the blind.

At Napoleon's urging, the priest climbed back into the blind to hide in the shadows with the nuns. Napoleon returned his antique firearm with a strong admonition that he not try firing it. Napoleon crouched in the shadows beneath the blind, eye on Illya as he slowly made his way down the trail, back the way they'd come. The Sentinel paused just before he became lost to his Guide's view and waited, but after a minute or two Napoleon saw his partner's posture relax, and felt something similar through their bond as well. Whoever Illya had spotted approaching was no threat, and possibly a friend.

Napoleon was still surprised, however, when he saw Illya stand and reveal himself to an approaching rider, coming up the trail with a clutch of saddled but riderless horses in tow and followed by a second rider.

"Good morning Agent Fischer, Herr Fischer," Illya said, clearly enough for everyone to hear.

Now Napoleon rose, making his way to the base of the ladder to tell the occupants of the blind that all was well. "Looks like your rendezvous was with UNCLE all along," he said. "Though UNCLE administration might not be fully apprised, I'm thinking."

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

"Of course, you're fully within your rights to report me," Agent Fischer said over coffee as they sat together in the lodge's dining room. The Father and his charges were asleep upstairs in three of the empty guest rooms, and the three UNCLE agents plus Herr Fischer, standing protectively beside his Sentinel, were only now able to discuss the sticky situation they found themselves in.

"That is easy for you to say," Illya replied, annoyed with the whole situation. "But the consequences would not only be for you. The Soviet Politburo may well find this the final reason they need to cease cooperation with UNCLE, and a major diplomatic incident may result if Father Jelinek and the others are not returned to Czechoslovakia. Did you even think of that?"

Naturally, no one had an answer and Illya stood to get another cup of coffee. He would have liked something stronger, but his Sentinel would not let him, still keyed up from their late night investigation and discovery. Napoleon's worried gaze followed him across the room.

"I don't know that the Politburo necessarily needs to be informed," he offered. "And it's not our decision to make, in any case. UNCLE does stand solidly behind people's freedom to worship, so I don't think they'll let father Jelinek's group be sent back. Why don't we concentrate on our mission, and see where that leads us before we get too caught up in this."

"If I may…? Agent Fischer began tentatively. Napoleon's glance in Illya's direction urged temperance and Illya acquiesced. They both nodded.

"Father Jelinek has quite recently done business with the very people we are investigating," she said. "I asked him if he'd be willing to answer our questions about who he hired to guide him and how it was done, and he agreed. Why don't we all get some rest and hear what he has to say before we make any decisions."

"That sounds like good sense to me, partner," Napoleon said. Illya wanted to be annoyed at him for being right, but couldn't. He nodded tiredly.

"Very well," he answered.

"Gentlemen," Agent Fischer said as they all stood. "I… I know I have broken you trust, and that none of the many reasons I thought that these… extra curricular activities would never interfere with my work for UNCLE will make any difference to you. but I am very sorry. If there's anything you want to know about our 'underground railroad' here in Zwiesel, of course I'll be happy to tell you what I know, but we're also very compartmentalized… which I'm afraid was my idea. I never meet the mountain guides who leave their charges in the blind, and whoever picks them up in the Langdorf bus station tomorrow will never meet me."

"How very professional of you," Illya said drily.

"I suppose that, living in a little country village like this, you might not expect to find yourself working on a mission in your own backyard," Napoleon said with understanding. "Naturally, it's different when you live in New York."

"I imagine it is," Agent Fischer said, letting her Guide curl his arm around her waist and lead her up the stairs toward their room. Illya could not find it in himself to object when he felt Napoleon's hand on his shoulder, gently directing him toward their own room. Strangely, Illya felt the faintest pang of longing at the sight of the Fischers supporting each other at the end of the long day. Napoleon's hand on him offered the promise that this closeness could be his if he only let it, but Illya held back. Gaining this comfort would mean losing something, Illya was sure; nothing so precious could be had without a price.

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~


	5. Act IV: "They call him... KIng of Šumava."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a horse comes to a sad end in this chapter, but off camera

They all woke around noon, Illya and Napoleon woken together by the smells of coffee and other culinary odors. Emerging from their room, they were drawn by sounds and smells to the lodge's dining room where the Sisters were laying out a truly magnificent brunch. They'd gotten Herr Fischer to direct them to the pantry and he'd granted them permission to get into the luxury goods, so there was smoked ham, aged cheeses, and four kinds of sausages along with the eggs, bacon, pancakes, fried potatoes, fruit and fresh bread, still warm from the oven.

"They are most eager to show their gratitude," Herr Fischer explained. "And if you are anywhere near as hungry as my Greta, we will have no trouble to eat all this food, yes?"

His Sentinel appeared in the doorway a moment later, just as one of the nuns came in from the kitchen bearing a basket full of piping hot rolls. Father Jelinek and the other sisters followed shortly after and, once a heartfelt Grace had been delivered by the Father, all fell to with the heartiest of appetites. The conversation over the meal was limited by the nuns speaking only Czech, a little Russian and Church Latin, and the topic mainly concerned the sorts of foods that their guests had not seen in their country for decades and were delighted to be enjoying now.

Once Agent Fischer had made it clear that she planned no rigorous activities for them today, Illya let himself relax and take his time over the meal. Watching Napoleon playfully flirt with the aging nuns in bad Russian was as entertaining as any dinner theater, and Illya found that even his lingering resentment with Agent Fischer had subsided to almost nothing. Good food is a balm that soothes nearly all ills, he reflected as he finished his last slice of home cured ham.

 

At the conclusion of the meal Herr Fischer agreed to oversee the kitchen cleanup with the nuns while Father Jelinek and the three UNCLE agents decamped to the lounge to have a private conversation.

"I am very sorry, Frau Fischer," the priest began, "that we've caused you trouble with your organization. I imagine that there's little we would be able to do to help, but if our testimony would be of any use…?"

"UNCLE absolutely supports your right to practice your religion," Napoleon affirmed. "And to seek safety, when you are oppressed because of it. Agent Fischer's bad luck is that she, and we, are supposed to be investigating a different sort of smuggling operation in this area."

"What is it you are investigating?" Father Jelinek asked. "If there's anything I know that can help you, I am happy to pass it on."

"You'll understand that we can't go into too many details," Agent Fischer replied, "but the operation we're investigating is bringing certain very dangerous, and politically destabilizing materials across the mountains, into the West. I've lived here long enough to know that whatever is being smuggled, there's always been one man, or one small group, who know the secret of where to cross through the bogs in the high passes. They call themselves the 'King of Böhmerwald' and nothing passes through this area that they don't know about."

"They call him, 'Král Šumavy' —King of Šumava, on our side of the border," Father Jelinek said with a smile. "That was who I had to ask for in a certain pub, in a certain village. The man who took my money and told me when and where to meet, he was not the one who guided us over the mountains. That man wore a great hood, and as it was a dark night, we did not see his face."

Illya shook his head in disappointment. "This is not exactly useful information," he muttered.

"I realize it is not," said the priest patiently. "But here is something that may be. When the man I met in the pub told me what day we should make the crossing, I asked if we could not wait a week, as one of the sisters had a cough. He told me it was not possible, because he only makes crossings on the week of the new moon, and that later in the week he was already engaged. We must either go on the day he said, or wait another month."

"Now, that is information we can use," Napoleon said. "Does that mean we need to go back and stake out the blind tonight?"

"Tomorrow night," said Agent Fischer. "We can check the place out tonight, just to be sure, but it will have taken him all morning to cross back over to the Czech side of the border. Still no guarantee that we won't be intercepting a load of Moravian moonshine rather than… what we're looking for, but…"

"But it's a solid tip," Illya commented. "The best we've had so far. Thank you, sir."

"I am happy, even proud, though it is a sin, to be able to help UNCLE," the priest replied. As this was the all the information he had for them, he now returned to the kitchen to help the nuns, leaving the agents to their plans.

"So," Napoleon began, "we send a party out tonight… or early tomorrow morning, just to be sure, then prepare for a full on stake-out the night after that?"

Agent Fischer nodded. "We should keep up a normal routine during the day. It's a good bet that the 'King' has confidants in town here."

"Indeed," Illya agreed, "and to that point, I'd like to recommend that Agent Fischer make the reconnoiter tonight, but stay here in town for the stake-out."

"Agent Kuryakin," Fischer objected, "I realize that my own actions put my trustworthiness in doubt, but surely…"

"It isn't about trust, Agent Fischer," Napoleon put in, glancing towards Illya to check that they were on the same page. Illya nodded and he continued. "It's about those in-town confidants you mentioned. Remember, if our cover's still intact, they'll think that you're the only law enforcement they need to watch. If they see you go out on the wrong night, then stay home when the goods are on the move, they'll think the coast is clear."

"And having some backup may not be a bad idea either," Illya suggested. Agent Fischer frowned, then nodded after another moment.

"I'm not crazy about it," she said at last, "but I can't argue with the sense of it.   
Truth be told, the two of you are a force to be reckoned with, as my report on your training will state. You're the most powerful bonded pair I've ever had the pleasure of training, though you've got quite a few rough edges still, gentlemen." She smiled and Napoleon beamed with pride.

She gave them some reading assignments for the rest of the day and they agreed on which pub they'd meet at for dinner. Napoleon and Illya would reinforce their cover while they were there, and might even take a stroll to look over a few more potential investment properties today as well. It did make for a light day, followed by a restful night as Agent Fischer went out with her Guide to check on the blind before dawn the next morning, leaving the two other agents back at the lodge as they'd planned.

They were up, having a late-ish breakfast from the abundant remains of the day before's breakfast when Agent Fischer and her Guide returned. They reported finding nothing of note, as expected.

"That means you're on for tonight, gentlemen," Agent Fischer said. "I recommend getting to the blind around dusk; that means leaving here two hours before, around four thirty or so."

Napoleon and Illya would be on their own until then, as Agent Fischer would be driving Father Jelinek and the three sisters to a bus station in an adjacent town, and would take the scenic route on return, in order to lose any tails. There was still a bit of reading left for the two of them from yesterday's assignment, and for lunch their cover personas, Mr Symington and Franklin, would make another appearance at the neighborhood pub.

After lunch they prepared for their overnight stakeout, brewing flasks of coffee and making up hearty sandwiches wrapped in foil. They also packed their UNCLE communicators, though due to the mountainous terrain, they would only be able to contact each other. To call for Agent Fischer's backup, they had brought along a flare gun. They departed surreptitiously at half past four, taking back alleys and cutting through woodlots to avoid being seen leaving town.

Once away from the village and all the sights and smells of human civilization, Illya felt the Sentinel within him relax to a certain degree, opening his senses fully to the natural surroundings. Working with his Guide over the last week, Illya had to admit that his senses now extended rather farther than they had before and that he, himself was more sensitive to the common smells and background noises endemic to human habitation. 

Napoleon served as a buffer against these things, even as he sharpened his Sentinel's abilities, just as the historical and medical articles Agent Fischer had given them to read suggested he would. It was beginning to look as if Illya's Soviet trainers had, at the very least, misrepresented the role of Guides and their abilities, and quite possibly lied outright. There was a sense, from the instinctual heart of his Sentinel, that he was finally shaking off the chains of this legacy of half truths and stretching to his full strength and capacity. Could this new capacity even include a Spirit Animal? How could it not, if Napoleon had one as well? Letting his newly liberated instincts guide him, Illya's eyes looked towards the sky, catching a flash of movement at his periphery. Illya knew then, even without a clear sight, that there was a Spirit Animal for him, and its home was the sky.

"Seeing something there, Sentinel?" Napoleon asked as they walked.

"Not yet," Illya answered, sensing immediately that his Guide understood. "Not long though, I think. Not long at all."

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

Once they'd gotten settled into the blind and thoroughly policed the area for any visible traces of their presence, the stakeout quickly became just as boring as most stakeouts are. They weren't really expecting anyone to show up until after 4am or so, but both agents needed to be awake and attentive all night long. Even their conversations needed to be kept to a minimum, for sounds could travel a long way in these mountain passes. All they could do to relieve their boredom was eat, drink coffee and occasionally switch up who was sitting next to the doorway in the blind.

Napoleon was just itching to ask Illya about what he'd seen in the sky on the trail up, but knew too many reasons why he shouldn't. He knew already that Illya thought it might be his Spirit Animal, and he doubted Illya knew any more than that himself. Still, it put a smile on his face every time he thought of Illya Kuryakin, the great Russian skeptic, coming around to the idea of having something so removed from the empirical as a Spirit Animal. Naturally it was Illya who was up front when he reported hearing something.

"Horses," he said softly, checking his UNCLE special, loaded with tranquilizing rounds, as was Napoleon's. "Five or six of them, I think." Both agents edged away from the opening in the blind, huddling together in the shadowed interior. They waited in silence, guns at the ready, until Illya said, "Damn… they're holding back. I think… one of them is a Sentinel."

Napoleon gazed out of the blind into the grey light of predawn, extending his empathic senses to the approaching party. There was a Sentinel among them, but he would not be able to sense what Napoleon masked. He'd practiced this trick with Agent Fischer, cueing the proper state of mind with the phrase, 'nobody here but us chickens.' Illya looked at him curiously when he muttered this to himself, but then nodded his understanding. A moment later the approaching party started forward again.

They waited until the riders—three of them, leading three more heavily laden horses—had become visible, and the leader dismounted and approaching the blind. Then Illya announced their presence.

"Halt, and drop your weapons!" he said, firing a sleep dart into one of the horses when its rider tried to make a break for it. The animal cried out in surprise, then sank quietly to the ground and the rider had to jump free. This was where the strategic flaw of their blind became problematic, for now that the smugglers knew where they were, they were easy targets and the blind offered absolutely no protection from bullets.

Illya dropped to the ground, dashing into the middle of the group to shoot, targeting the laiden horses. Napoleon took the calculated risk of keeping to the high ground of the blind. From there he could see one of the smugglers take a shot at Illya and Napoleon gave answering fire, though his target was hard to see in the uncertain light. He, or the blind where he crouched, was not hard to see however, and now that he'd drawn attention to himself, he became a target. Several bullets pierced the brush and bark walls of the blind and then one of them struck Napoleon in the leg.

Swearing viciously, he returned fire and took down another smuggler. Illya's gun took out another, and the third now took to his heels, or rather, his horse's heels. Leaping onto one of the two horses still standing, the lone survivor and, Napoleon realized, the Sentinel they'd sensed on approach, spurred his mount back up the trail at full speed. Illya watched him go, then glanced back at Napoleon. He had to know his Guide was wounded, but Napoleon didn't want him to stay back on his account.

"Go on!" he shouted. "That's him; the Sentinel, the 'King of Šumava'. We can't let him get away!"

Illya's gaze met his for a full second, like a rapid fire negotiation. Napoleon would be fine; Illya would go after the criminal. Seizing the reins of the other standing horse, Illya mounted and urged the animal up the trail after his prey. Napoleon watched them go as he pulled the first aid kit out of their gear and got a bandage to wrap his wounded leg. It was bleeding a bit more than he liked, but he would manage. He had to.

Painful though it was to descend the short ladder out of the blind, Napoleon knew that the smugglers they'd darted would not stay down long, nor would the horses with their precious, lethal cargo. He saw to them first, simply cutting through the girth straps which secured the packs to the horses. It made no difference to him if the horse woke and ran off, as long as the goods remained. 

The smugglers he dragged aside and bound, hand and foot, securing them where he could keep an eye on them from the blind. As unprotected as it was, it still provided higher ground, and hid him from sight at first. By the time Napoleon had mounted the ladder once again, however, he was feeling decidedly light headed and needed a fresh bandage. Glancing over their gear for the flare gun, Napoleon realized that Illya had it in his coat pocket.

He re-bandaged his injured thigh, frowning at the amount of blood and pulling the new bandage as tight as he could. He had a feeling it wouldn't be enough, and reached for his communicator. Surely Illya would have either caught or lost the smuggling kingpin by now. In any case, it was time to call for backup.

Unfortunately, no response came to Napoleon's call. Only static could be heard on his communicator, which told him nothing except that no one would be coming to help any time soon. Come on Sentinel, he though, laying the open communicator on the floor beside him. Your Guide is waiting. 

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

Illya's perception narrowed to near tunnel vision intensity as he urged his horse up the trail after the rogue Sentinel. That any Sentinel would allow such dangerous materials to be transported through his own territory offended every fibre of his Sentinel heart. He gave not one thought to the dangers of following the man as he left the path, so focused was he on closing the distance between them. So narrow was his focus that he did not consider the significance of galloping full speed across what seemed a broad, open meadow, nor think it odd to hear the cry of a hunting bird at this hour of night.

Illya was caught completely unaware when his prey turned on him suddenly, firing his gun to strike the ground just in front of Illya's horse. The animal screamed and reared up, throwing Illya to tumble head first into a rock. Stunned, he dazedly watched his horse dash mindlessly off across the meadow, which, of course, wasn't a meadow at all, but an extensive peat bog. He heard the poor creature scream in terror a moment later, but he could not seem to coordinate himself enough to rise and see what was happening. Instead, he felt the dark of the shadows around him seem to gather, darkening his vision, and then he knew nothing at all for some time.

When his eyes opened next, Illya was aware not of dark, but light—pale, and suffusing the land around him. There was also sound, of the breeze moving through the surrounding grasses and shrubs, and something chirping like an insect, incessantly. After several iterations, Illya suddenly knew what it was.

Sitting abruptly was a mistake, and Illya first found himself retching into the muddy grass at his side. Once the nausea passed the headache was almost blinding, but Illya still managed to put his hands on the chirping communicator and activate it without dropping it.

"Kuryakin here," he managed, once he had it open.

"Illya, thank God! Where the hell have you been?" Napoleon's voice showed concern, but was also pained and Illya remembered that Napoleon had been injured.

"Horse threw me," he muttered, eyes closed against the headache. "I seem to have hit my head on a log. How long have you been trying to reach me?"

"Forty minutes at least," Napoleon said. "Are you alright?"

"Head hurts, just like every time I've been knocked out," Illya said. "I'll be fine. What about you?"

"I've been shot before too," Napoleon replied. "I've got the first aid supplies here, so I'll be fine, but you've got the flare gun."

Illya swore, patting down his jacket pockets until he found it. "Yes, I have it. I'm sending the signal now. Agent Fischer will probably get to you in an hour or so. Is everything else secured where you are?"

Watching the flare climb into the grey, predawn sky, Illya listened to Napoleon explain that the smuggled goods as well as the remaining two smugglers were secured. "And what about the fellow you were following?"

"The King of Šumava reigns still," Illya said with a sigh, relaying his own situation. "And I'm afraid my horse has come to a bad end. Not that it would have any idea of how to get out of this swamp either."

"Swamp?" The single word raised a host of questions.

"Our smuggler king led me right into the thick of it," Illya said with chagrin. "And I followed him like an idiot."

"Well, I told you to, so that makes us both idiots," Napoleon said. "Now let's be smart and get you out of it. Can you follow your own tracks back the way you came?"

Grabbing hold of a nearby sapling, Illya pulled himself upright and gazed around him for any sign of his or his opponent's passing. Now that the sky was beginning to lighten, the shimmer of standing water became visible everywhere. On the muddy patch of high ground where he stood, Illya could see the mixed tracks of their two horses, one set running into a patch of water to his left, one running straight ahead, into another watery patch. Tracking them backwards, he found that they both appeared out of an expanse of shallow water, grassy tufts and mud that stretched some distance.

"There's water everywhere, covering the tracks," Illya said, trying not to let his dismay show.

"Okay," Napoleon's voice came after a pause. "Then… you're just going to have to use your senses to tell where it's safe to walk. If that other Sentinel could figure it out…"

That man, Illya thought but did not say, almost certainly learned the route from the previous 'smuggler king' and he from his own predecessor, going back to the middle ages. Then again, these peat bogs weren't exactly unchanging. No doubt each smuggler guide would have to find new ways after a winter freeze or spring flood. Cutting a long, sound branch from the sapling to use as a probe, Illya took a new look at the tufts of rushes and clumps of shrubbery visible above the water, in the direction from which his tracks emerged.

"You may have a point," Illya allowed, drawing a long breath and centering himself in the nature around him. He took another, not quite able to reach the calm awareness he wanted. He drew a third breath, then lifted the communicator again. "I… I think I will need you… to find my focus…"

"Of course," Napoleon's voice touched the center within him and helped Illya find it immediately. "Just listen to my voice, let your eyes relax, take in everything; let your ears take in everything. You already know what's significant; you'll recognise it when you see it."

One more breath and now Illya was where he wanted to be. He was part of the land around him now, sensing what the trees sensed, feeling through the souls of his shoes what the roots of the sedges and bushes felt. The rising dawn birdsong was no longer a cacophony, but a symphony of stories, as clear to read as the morning newspaper. Illya strode forward now, prodding the ground ahead with his stick, not as a test but a confirmation of what he was fairly sure he would find.

No sooner had he taken his first step into the shallow water, when Illya heard another voice in the avian symphony—an intruder which the other birds seemed not to notice. If they had, such a sound would have caused them to fall instantly silent, but Illya already knew that he was the only one who heard the hunting bird's cry. He lifted his eyes to find it and spotted the indicative silhouette in the upper branches of a half dead tree, just ahead.

"You still with me, Sentinel?" Napoleon paused in his monologue to check in.

"Very much with you," Illya said. "Both of us… I think. Please continue."

"Well alright," Napoleon said with a surprised chuckle. "I bet she'll lead the way, if you let her… or him."

"Her, I think," Illya said, "though I can't tell you why." He glanced up at the silhouette again and saw it take wing and fly a short distance, more or less in the direction he was going. Napoleon's voice over the communicator continued, holding Illya in the moment, letting him see the way ahead as clearly as if it were marked out in lights.

It was slow going nonetheless. Though Illya never stepped into any really deep patches, he frequently found mud deep enough to clutch at his feet and shoes, releasing them only with some effort on his part. Through it all, Illya could feel that he was making progress, every step bringing him closer to his Guide. So certain was he, and so pleased at his success at finding his way through the bog, Illya did not notice how his Guide's voice grew gradually weaker, and weaker.

It was as Illya was following his Spirit Animal with his eyes, watching it lift away from another tree branch, when, rather than gliding to another tree, she flew straight at Illya, flapping her striking black and white wings nearly in his face. He caught a glimpse of her head then as well, the distinctive black 'tear' marks on her face identifying her as a falcon, and stumbled back, giving a wordless shout in surprise.

"Illya? What's happening?" Suddenly, Illya heard the unsteadiness in his Guide's voice and felt a surge of anxiety.

"I'm fine… just my Animal Spirit getting my attention. Napoleon, are you alright?" Illya replied.

"I… may be losing more blood than is strictly healthy…" Napoleon admitted.

The surge of fear Illya had felt expanded, all his senses momentarily overwhelmed with a rush of terrible dread. "Napoleon… you idiot! Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't want to distract you…" Napoleon's voice was barely audible, as if admitting his plight had taken his last strength. The falcon's cry came once again, like a bell, crystallizing Illya's senses to razor sharpness. She flew and Illya leapt after her, casting his stick aside. She was the manifestation of all his senses; her direction the sum of all his reasoning; he needed no further considerations to make his way.

Feet landing too lightly for the mud to seize, Illya crossed the last stretch of swamp and plunged into the forest. Where he saw his falcon fly and light and fly again, Illya followed, dodging trees and scrambling over rocks. They came to the trail again in no time, and now Illya ran full out and his Spirit Animal soared. He saw her circling before he spotted the blind, but as soon as it came into view it also came in to range of his sense of smell.

The scent of blood permeated the air and Illya had the passing thought that the forest rangers were going to have to burn the blind down because no animal would ever come near it with such a taint. This was his Guide's blood that he was smelling, though, and Illya was filled with alarm, reaching out with his hearing to catch Napoleon's heartbeat. He found it, faint and unsteady as it was, and clung to it, as if his attention alone could support it.

Scrambling up the ladder into the blind, Illya found his Guide within, slumped against one wall and unmoving. There was something moving in the shadows of the blind, however, that Illya saw stretching up to lick his Guide's face. It was a lithe little creature, and it left off licking Napoleon's face as soon as it saw Illya, dashing up to him with urgent yipping sounds.

"I'm here now; I've got you," Illya said, gathering his Guide into his arms. He had no idea how much time had passed since he'd fired the flare gun, but dared not waste a minute getting Napoleon to a hospital. The floor of the blind was covered in blood and much had seeped between the floorboards to drip on the ground beneath.

Napoleon groaned quietly when Illya set him on the ground outside to tie another bandage over his thigh.

"I'm taking you back to town now, Napoleon," he said. "You've got to hang on till then."

"Horses… run off," Napoleon mumbled.

Now Illya glanced around to see the three sets of saddlebags with their severed straps on the ground, and the crushed vegetation where the horses had lain. The tranquilizers had worn off already, on account of the creatures' size, and they'd evidently fled. The two smugglers they'd caught were tied together to one of the legs of the blind, and they were still out.

"I'll manage," Illya said, pulling Napoleon's bandage tight.

"Can't leave the… bags," Napoleon protested as Illya lifted him again. "Too dangerous…"

It wasn't that Napoleon didn't have a point, and a little part of Illya was stridently insisting that this was just another example of how having a Guide complicated things, but Illya didn't care in the least. "They're not going anywhere and Agent Fischer is on her way," he said, well aware that leaving now might well constitute dereliction.

None of that mattered to Illya at the moment, however. Holding his Guide close, Illya set off down the trail at a light jog, pacing himself for a long run. The pace jostled Napoleon, who moaned and clutched weakly at Illya's shirt.

"Just hold on," Illya murmured without breaking his stride. "Just stay with me till I get you to help."

The rest of the journey down the trail passed in a blur for Illya, though it did seem that there were moments when he saw Napoleon's otter perched on his Guide's shoulder and licking his face. He was vaguely aware of his own Animal Spirit's nearby presence, sometimes flitting along above, sometimes swooping ahead, down the trail. The sky lightened as he went, from a dim, pearly grey to a pale blue shot with pink and gold. In this sharper light Illya spotted his falcon circling again, calling his attention to something down the trail.

Hope lightening his step, Illya jogged around the next bend to see, as he had hoped, Agent Fischer and her Guide, riding and leading a pair of saddled horses with them. They stopped and called out as soon as they saw Illya and his burden.

As briefly as he could, Illya reported on the situation, insisting that Napoleon could not keep himself on a horse, and that Agent Fischer and her husband had better go on ahead to secure the smugglers and their as yet unknown cargo. Agent Fischer took it all in without a blink, not even when Illya confessed to leaving the smugglers and their cargo behind.

"You know where the clinic is in town?" she asked, helping Illya manage Napoleon as he mounted one of the free horses. "They'll have enough blood plasma on hand to stabilize him once you get there, and an ambulance to get you to the hospital."

It was information that Illya appreciated and he told her so as he resettled Napoleon in his arms and urged his horse forward. The animal's loping canter jostled Napoleon painfully, but Illya help him close, kissing his brow and promising that the ride would be over soon.

Illya found the clinic without a single wrong turn once they'd entered the town, and much to his relief they seemed to know just how to handle distressed Sentinels and Guides. Not once did they try to separate Illya and Napoleon, and the bed they found for his Guide had a chair next to it for him. Several units of plasma later, Napoleon was considerably more alert and Illya profoundly more at ease.

"We'll be sending you both by ambulance to the main hospital in Regen in a little while," the on-duty nurse said. "Mr Solo seems to be recovering as expected, however, so I'd say you're mostly out of the woods."

Illya thanked her as she left them in privacy, feeling the state of heightened alarm and awareness slowly abate. Letting his eyes drift partially closed, Illya felt Napoleon squeeze his hand and murmur a question.

"Hey, Sentinel," he said, "is that yours?"

Illya followed his Guide's gaze to the top of his IV stand, and there perched Illya's falcon in all her splendor, preening herself casually. Following her gaze, Illya now spotted Napoleon's otter, draped across his feet and cleaning his whiskers.

"Must be," acknowledged Illya. "And is that yours?" He motioned toward the foot of the bed.

"You know it," Napoleon answered, managing to sound smug in spite of everything.

Illya was dismayed and yet resigned at how enamored he was, even of Napoleon's smugness, and knew himself to be hopelessly lost. "I suppose I do," he admitted with a smile.

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~


	6. Epilogue: "...unfinished business."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not really an epilogue, but rather a full length final chapter. That's what I get for trying to shoehorn my smutty, plot heavy stories into the five act TV show format. Of course, they didn't include any sex scenes in the TV show, and that makes for a lot of extra words, ya know.

Napoleon was only in the hospital for two days, for transfusions and stitches. The bullet had pierced muscle and nicked an artery, but had passed by the bone, thankfully. He was released on crutches and with orders to stay off the leg—the kinds of orders Napoleon had previously taken only half heartedly, but now there was a Sentinel at his side, insisting most fervently that he would make sure that Napoleon would follow those orders rigorously.

Happily, he would at least be following them in the pleasant confines of the lodge. UNCLE had declared that Napoleon would convalesce in Zwiesel, as it cost nothing, and let Agent Fischer finish up whatever training she could impart with Napoleon partially invalided. That ended up being nothing more than a review meeting which she and her Guide set up in the lodge's main lounge, with a fire in the immense fireplace and an extensive spread of cold cuts and slices of dense, seedy rye bread.

"There really wasn't much more that I had planned for you," she said over her second mug of beer. "And I think the two of you have pretty much got the hang of how to function as a pair. What I would like to give you now, however, is my report on how the two of you did in your last mission—and your first as a bonded pair."

Napoleon already knew that they could count the mission as a slightly qualified success, as the smuggled cargo had, indeed proved to be fissionable materials from the Jachymov mines. The two captured smugglers had given up enough information about the source of the smuggled goods for the Czech authorities to plug the hole. The only loose end was the KIng of Smugglers himself who, it seemed, had little to do with the Jáchymov connection in any case, and mainly provided a guide service to anyone with the money. Mission outcomes notwithstanding, Napoleon was not as certain about how his and Illya's new partnership would be evaluated.

"This is the report you'll be sending on to UNCLE administration, I assume," Napoleon said.

"A more formal version, yes," Agent Fischer said. "Well be speaking more personally this evening, Sentinel to Sentinel and Guide to Guide."

"No doubt it includes something about how I need to pay more attention to my Guide," Illya commented, seeming resigned, but philosophical about it.

"Actually," Agent Fischer replied, "especially considering how unprepared you were at the start, you've made tremendous progress. You actually requested your Guide's help in centering yourself, in order to find a safe path out of the bog. That's a very good sign. No, your biggest mistake in this last mission, Sentinel Kuryakin, was a very difficult one to avoid."

"And that was?" Illya asked.

"Letting your own Sentinel get the bit between his teeth when you realized that you were pursuing a rogue Sentinel," the Senior Sentinel answered. "Balancing your Sentinel instincts and your training as an agent can be a tricky business in most circumstances, and it can be almost impossible when you encounter something like this. Fortunately, actual rogue Sentinels are quite rare, so you're unlikely to encounter one in the future, but if you do, know that your Sentinel may not respond rationally, and will be difficult to control."

"Even I have a problem with the idea of a Sentinel who would allow such dangerous and destabilizing materials to be transported through his territory, much less facilitate it," Napoleon said. "And I imagine it didn't help when I shouted for you to go after him."

"It wasn't necessarily the wrong thing to do at the time," Herr Fischer commented. "And you certainly didn't tell him to let himself get lost while going after him."

"Well, no," Napoleon said with a smile.

"On the other hand," Herr Fischer continued, and Napoleon realized that this would be his evaluation. "You did make one egregious mistake, Guide Solo, which you must never make again. A guide must never, ever hold back anything from their Sentinel. I know you believed that revealing the seriousness of your injury would distract him, not because you told me, young man, but because all newly bonded Guides think so."

"You know, I don't think it was altogether fair for you to have gotten my post mission report while I was still on strong pain meds," Napoleon complained.

Herr Fischer smiled. "You are quite a strong Guide, Mr Solo," he said, "but I am somewhat more experienced. Your state of mind made my work a bit easier, but would have learned what I wished to know in any case. Your ability to mask your Sentinel from another Sentinel is quite impressive, and the two of you are well matched for power. Your Sentinel, however, is not the only one of you whose education did not adequately prepare him for bonding. I can say this with certainty as almost all Guide training, even the most progressive, is still based on the misapprehension that Guides are meant to be subservient to their Sentinels."

"My parents told me not to believe that," Napoleon considered, "but all of my trainers did seem to."

"And here is your result," Herr Fischer said. "You have it in your subconscious, that your needs must take second position to your Sentinel's, but in fact, your needs and his are one and the same. Your Sentinel needs you, everything you know, sense and feel, every ability that you have. He needs one hundred percent of you, at all times, and anything you hold back from him takes away one of the tools he needs to do his job."

"Huh…" Napoleon said after a moment. "I never thought of it that way before."

"And I suppose that goes both ways," Illya said, frowning in thought himself. "I have been taught that I must protect my Guide, but if I protect him by keeping something back…"

"Then you are leaving him vulnerable. Precisely," said Agent Fischer.

"Being a Guide or a Sentinel means contending with powerful instincts," Herr Fischer added. "But many things you have been told about those instincts are not true. Your predisposition to keep your pain or worry to yourself has nothing to do with Sentinel/Guide instincts, and everything to do with your affection for each other. Listen with an open mind to your Sentinels and Guides, and you will not make this mistake."

"You sound as though you're speaking from personal experience," Napoleon said after a thoughtful moment.

"Very astute, Guide Solo," Agent Fischer said with a smile. "You'll have your own learning experiences in the years to come, but the more lessons we can impart to you before you learn them the painful way, the better."

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

The two couples each departed to their own rooms shortly afterwards. The Fischers had their own place outside of town, but would stay in the lodge in Zwiesel so that they could drive Napoleon and Illya to Munich, from where they'd be flying to their next assignment, whatever that would be. That was the biggest unanswered question for them now, as Napoleon's base had previously been New York, whereas Ilya's had been London. They'd not talked about it much, as the decision wouldn't be up to them and neither one wanted to pin their hopes on such an uncertainty.

Illya had never even visited America before, his Soviet handlers uneasy about letting their precious asset put an ocean between himself and Mother Russia. They would not be pleased if UNCLE chose to send them to New York, but there was nothing they would be able to do about it. Illya himself might have had more of an opinion about it in the past, but since his bonding and other recent events, Illya's opinions had undergone something of a reorientation.

He found that he no longer cared at all about where in the world he lived, as long as it was with Napoleon Solo. It was troubling to admit this, but futile to argue against it. He had become the very thing his old masters had feared—loyal to none but his Guide and the common good, regardless of nation or creed. He was also rather shamelessly in love with his Guide, which the Soviets would never have approved of. It was his rationalist, Soviet upbringing, however, that led Illya to face the truth about who and what he was, and who, what he needed from life and who he loved.

Having made that admission to himself, Illya knew that there were things he needed to admit to his Guide. Looking back on their first night together, he found his own memories indicting his behavior, and the cruel brusqueness with which he'd cut short what should have been a long and pleasant process of mutual self discovery. Helping Napoleon wrap his bandage in plastic before showering, Illya caught a glance of himself in the bathroom mirror and knew that he was the one who would have to make it right.

After Napoleon's shower, Illya helped him change his bandage, an uncomplicated process the like of which Illya had done countless times before with other fellow agents over his career. Tending to his Guide, however, felt grounding, as well as lending the sense that such humble acts were literally building the foundation of their partnership. Healing touches became as meaningful as loving touches… and then simply became loving touches, all on their own.

Sitting beside him on the bed as Illya finished taping Napoleon's bandage and let his fingers trail over his thigh, Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I remember what we agreed," Illya said. "So, yes, I am now admitting that we have… unfinished business."

Part of Illya wished that seeing Napoleon's face light up like that didn't fill him with irresistible romantic notions, but most of him delighted in it and knew that old part of him was in its last days. "I am sorry… for rejecting you, as I did in Munich, but I think it is not too late to… pick up where we left off?"

"And where would that be?" Napoleon asked, leaning back on his hands to gaze at Illya with heart melting affection. He was wearing nothing but boxers and gave Illya, in turn, quite a bit to admire. It was not only Illya's eyes which were drawn to feast upon the sight of his Guide, for he found his hands longing to touch, mouth eager to taste, ears straining for the sound of his every breath and heartbeat, and lungs drawing the scent of him deep within. Illya had thought to make some clever reply to Napoleon's question, but quickly found that part of his brain had absented itself.

"Right here; right now," Illya said, voice suddenly rough as he leaned down to take his Guide's mouth with his own, tongue thrusting deep to take what it craved. Through the bond they shared, Illya was aware in passing that Napoleon also had some clever retort in mind, but abandoned it in favor of reaching up to pull Illya down onto him. 

"Oh hell yes," was all he could manage verbally, murmuring the words against Illya's lips.

Letting his weight settle against his Guide's body Illya became immediately aware that his tee shirt was going to have to go, and that his and Napoleon's boxers would be following shortly. Not only his hands now, but every square inch of his skin was hungry to be in contact with Napoleon's. Holding himself up with one arm, he pulled his shirt off with the other, interrupting his kiss for brief seconds only. He moaned aloud with relief to feel his skin laying against his Guide's, pressing himself into the other's body voraciously.

It still wasn't enough, with both their legs hanging off the side of the bed. They were of one mind as they scrambled and scrunched their way up the bed, which came to include the shedding of their last pieces of clothing. At last they lay side by side, wrapped in each other's arms, crushed in a mutual embrace whose impossible goal seemed to be merging them into one being. Failing that, Illya wanted to somehow engulf his Guide's body with his own, to feel his Guide inside him, as well as all around him.

As his hands grasped Napoleon's shoulders, pulling him closer, his mouth consumed whatever it found, moving from his lover's mouth to tasting his face and neck, to licking and biting the collarbone and hardening nipples. It was not enough. He moved further down, taking in the flavor of his Guide's skin over his belly and hips, feeling the play of the muscles beneath the skin. When his mouth encountered his rigid and upright cock, Illya wanted to taste that too, wanted to take it inside him, as deeply as he could.

Napoleon cried out, thrusting his hips helplessly as Illya's mouth came to cover his sex. Illya didn't care. He wanted to take as much of Napoleon as he could into him, any way he could. Even as he savored the hard length of Napoleon's cock in his mouth, Illya felt a passing frisson of alarm, realizing the truth of what he really wanted. He'd never, ever wanted such a thing before, could even remember having felt revulsion at the very idea. He was not that man any more; that much was becoming clearer with every passing day.

It was only by focusing on what he really wanted that Illya was able to pull himself away from his Guide's cock. Napoleon made a bereft sound at first but soon caught Illya's intention, sitting up part way to meet his lover's eyes. 

"Lotion," Napoleon said, voice rough with desire. "We're gonna need it… and there's some in my suitcase."

Illya blinked hard, forcing his lust addled brain to make sense of Napoleon's words. "Your suitcase…?"

"Lie back, I'll get it," Napoleon said eagerly. Illya stilled him with a hand on his hip.

"I will get," Illya said, following his Guide's gaze to his suitcase. "You stay off leg."

"Point taken," Napoleon said as Illya found the container of hand lotion. "You're gonna be on top then."

"How…?" Illya returned to the bed and was immediately consumed with the need to feel his Guide's skin against his. Napoleon was altogether cooperative, and yet also managed to take control of the jar of lotion.

"You've never done this before, have you?" Napoleon seemed to have something in mind, wriggling around to lie perpendicular to him.

"No," Illya shook his head, chasing the top of Napoleon's head with kisses, thinking, you can trust him. Let him Guide you; let him take control.

"My beautiful, beautiful Sentinel," Napoleon said, kissing Illya's hips and belly. "I'm the luckiest Guide in the world. Lift your knees up." 

Illya complied without a thought and sighed at the touch of lips on his inner thighs now, and around the base of his cock. The craving for whole body contact faded with the intensity of the sensations, of a tongue tracing the length of his cock, of teasing kisses covering his testicles, the perineum. Illya's hands sought and found his Guide's mussed hair, in turns caressing and grasping. Napoleon only moaned with pleasure as he sent Illya deeper still into bliss.

As pleasurable as it was, Illya still found it somehow shocking to feel Napoleon's tongue caressing him there. He shouted, hips thrusting, but Napoleon calmed him, like a skittish horse, hands stroking Illya's thighs, as his tongue continued its explorations. Illya had no words, no concept for how it felt to have the silky moistness of Napoleon's tongue circling the sensitive flesh around his opening, but it was fantastic. He wanted more, and more came, as a lotion slicked finger now followed where the tongue had gone before.

Illya felt a new craving now, inconceivable not long ago, for he wanted that finger to penetrate him, wanted to feel something of Napoleon inside him, as at last he did. Illya moaned, panting desperate sounds, begging wordlessly for more, knowing that Napoleon would understand. Illya hardly knew how to say what he wanted, but Napoleon understood precisely what his Sentinel craved. His finger pressed deep into him, thrusting until Illya was keening helplessly, then he added another.

Two fingers now worked him relentlessly, stretching him ever so gradually. The stretch became more pronounced with a third finger added, but the sense of finally being filled as he craved overcame any discomfort. When Napoleon pressed his three fingers as deep as they could go Illya felt the stretch almost become too much, but then Napoleon touched something inside him, stroking it just so, and Illya's who body went boneless with pleasure.

"That's the spot," Napoleon crooned softly. "That's what you want, yes?"

"Boze moy," Illya groaned. "Yes… but…" 

"Oh, I know what you really want," Napoleon whispered, withdrawing his fingers and rolling onto his back. "Come on then Sentinel; come and ride me, to your heart's content."

The picture in Napoleon's mind was a clear as a snapshot to Illya. It took a moment to get his limbs to cooperate, but every part of him desperately wanted that sensation of being filled again, and to be filled with Napoleon's spectacularly upthrust cock, which he was now slicking down with a generous coat of lotion. Illya rolled to his knees, then lifted one leg to straddle his Guide's body, feeling like coming home the moment he settled himself there.

Together, two pairs of hands holding hips and guiding two bodies towards a much desired union, Sentinel and Guide brought Napoleon's cock to press at Illya's entrance. Balanced on a knife point of ecstasy and the last vestigial traces of fear, Illya eased himself back, feeling the hard flesh breach his threshold and enter. He cried out in pain and astonishment, the stretch momentarily alarming but soon passing, as the sensation of being entered and filled all but overwhelmed him.

Panting with the intensity of the experience, Illya let his full weight finally settle onto Napoleon's hips, astonished at the sensation of being penetrated, of another body intruding so deeply into his. Glancing down to meet his Guide's eyes, Illya felt something like a circuit connecting. This was what he had wanted and this was why. This was his Guide, now a part of Illya as much as Illya had become a part of him. This was the home Illya had never known, the heart that would contain his as he held the other's.

"Napolya…" Illya murmured, reaching down to frame his Guide's face between his hands. "Napolyanka… my Guide."

"My Sentinel," Napoleon whispered in turn, taking Illya's hand to kiss it. "All mine… only mine… Dear God you feel fantastic."

Then Napoleon began to thrust, small, gentle motions which, nonetheless, went off like fireworks in Illya's brain. He cried out and thrust back, impaling himself deeper, desiring to feel the hard flesh within him deeper still. They rocked together, first in unison, then in opposition, flesh and skin colliding in an urgent rhythm. Illya swore loudly at the touch of Napoleon's lotion slick hands taking hold of his cock, stroking it, letting Illya thrust into his grasp.

Illya became a creature of pure sensation and the innate reaction demanded of him. He had no volition of his own, existing in each moment's mindless desire for pleasure—one moment throwing himself into his Guide's delicious caress, the next pressing his lover's cock still deeper into his body. Seized by an unending and yet building loop of ecstasy and desire, Illya felt how he and his Guide propelled this cycle of pleasuring and pleasure-taking, how together they were a single astonishing being of potentially tremendous power.

Both felt it come into being; both felt it wake in the moment of their climax, or perhaps it was their climax that woke it. They shouted out together in that moment, Illya watching his own spending spatter over his Guide's body as he felt the pulsing warmth of Napoleon's release within. The reverberations of their mutual culmination echoed between them for a long, timeless moment, as their voices echoed each other's cries. Eventually Illya found himself slumping, body going boneless in the wake of its exertions.

He managed to direct himself so that he collapsed to lay beside Napoleon, rather than on top of him, and in doing so felt his lover slip free from within him. Illya shuddered at the sensation, an almost too intense mixture of pain and pleasure. Napoleon turned his head to meet Illya's eyes, momentary worry vanishing as he saw Illya's besotted smile.

"Napolya," Illya murmured, reaching out to touch Napoleon's face. "My Guide."

"My Sentinel," Napoleon answered, voice wrecked but eyes sparkling with affection.

They lay in silence for some time, no words remotely equal to what they'd just experienced. After a little while Illya found in himself the volition to roll onto his side, curling his body around Napoleon's. Napoleon shifted himself closer in response and Illya lay his arm over Napoleon's waist, feeling them fit together like hand and glove. They lay thusly for a long time before Illya fell asleep, revelling in the surprisingly comfortable place, free of thoughts or plans or worries, which holding his Guide close seemed to enable.

It was more than clear now, how foolish he'd been to resist this, but not even this internal admonition troubled him. Such was the power of this new existence as a bonded Sentinel. It was a whole new life he faced, to be sure, but Illya fell asleep without worries, knowing that whatever he came to face in the future, he would never be alone.

~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~

 

"I'm glad UNCLE is counting it as a successful mission," Napoleon said as Agent Fischer's van pulled away from the lodge, beginning their trip to the Munich airport. "But I still feel as if we let the 'big fish' get away."

Illya knew what he meant, but was too busy trying to imagine what his life would be like, living in New York. Agent Fischer had delivered this news, the order coming straight from Director Waverly himself, along with UNCLE's final report on their mission, when she'd come to pick them up this morning.

"Oh, he won't get away," Agent Fischer answered. "UNCLE knows it too. The problem of the King of Šumava doesn't fall under their jurisdiction, but they have confidence, I'm sure, that those whose jurisdiction it is will solve it, to everyone's satisfaction."

"And whose jurisdiction is it?" Illya asked, paying attention now. Agent Fischer's eyes met his by way of the rear view mirror, brows raised.

"I guess it's true, then," she said after a moment, "that Stalin really did eliminate all the old Sentinel Councils in Russia."

"The what?" Napoleon asked.

"Oh, they never had them in the New World," Agent Fischer answered, enigmatically. "Or rather, the native tribes probably had something similar, but I would imagine that they were all, or nearly all, extinguished too. Here in central Europe, though… well, we still have some traditions that go back a long way, like I said."

"And these… 'Sentinel Councils' are one such?" Illya prompted.

"Rogue Sentinels don't happen often," Agent Fischer explained. "But when they do, it's up to any other Sentinels in the area to put them down. The Councils exist, and have for Centuries, at least, to facilitate such actions, and to make sure that no law abiding Sentinels feel that their territory was encroached upon. They also meet to settle territorial disputes between Sentinels, organise Sentinels in times of war… things like that."

"Do they not also impose a hierarchy among Sentinels?" Illya said, remembering some vague mention of this institution in his early education.

"They recognise a natural hierarchy among Sentinels," Agent Fischer explained. "Which I'm sure the Party doesn't like to admit to. Some Sentinels are simply stronger than others, and bonded Sentinel-Guide pairs, being the strongest and most stable, tend to hold higher positions in that hierarchy. The two of you would be considered Alphas in any of the Councils that I know of."

"And this hierarchy," inquired Illya, not sure whether his doubts came from Soviet propaganda or his normally suspicious nature. "It is determined by some sort of combat?"

"Did you and I 'combat?" Agent Fischer asked. "Of course not. I recognised your strength, as any Sentinel would, and when you come to meet more Sentinels, you will come to recognise them as either more or less powerful than you, naturally. More powerful doesn't mean superior, either, Agent Kuryakin. We are who we are, and we each have our roles to fulfil." 

"But these Councils… they don't exist in the US?" Napoleon asked. "Doesn't that cause problems?"

"It probably does," Agent Fischer answered. "But we have no way of knowing over here. I imagine that if the need is great enough something will naturally form. Maybe the two of you will be part of that."

There was little conversation for the rest of the trip, but Illya could not help turning Agent Fischer's words over in his head, finding them strangely resonant with their new orders, to come and serve UNCLE in New York city. Illya had never met UNCLE's Section One, Number One and founder, though his reputation preceded him. Alexander Waverly was not one to do things by chance and Illya Kuryakin had never much believed in coincidences.

Did he and his Guide have some sort of destiny in the New World that was soon to be their home? While Illya might once have found such an idea superstitious nonsense, he now found it inconsequential. Sentinels have but one purpose: to protect the tribe; and one destiny: to become of better service to that tribe by bonding with a Guide.

Illya Kuryakin had long ago dedicated himself to his protective purpose, and would remain so dedicated for the rest of his life. As for his destiny, he'd accomplished the only one that mattered. Any others that awaited he would meet together with his Guide and partner for life.

**=FIN=**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! I've set myself up for a sequel! Stay tuned...
> 
> the central action in this affair was inspired by a classic Czech film, called "Král Šumavy" (1959) [(IMDB link)]() and the so-called 'King of Šumava' is more or less as I have described in the story, though in the Soviet era context of the film, he is a bad, bad guy, and a criminal and naturally, he comes to a bad end. If you like the challenge of watching a foreign film without subtitles, or if you speak Czech, you can watch it online [HERE]() and you can get some good visuals for the surroundings.


End file.
